















































































9 






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DICKENS 

The life of Charles Dickens is' a sort of Arabian 
Nights tale of wonder. Picture, to yourself a small, 
pinched, hungry boy, with a sensitive, unhappy little 
face, a frail body, and the poorest of clothing. He 
works all day tying up pots of blacking in a rickety 
old building in an alley. He saves his pennies for 
slices of pudding and pints of ale (think of a child 
saving his money for ale!), and at night goes home 
to a bare room in a lodging house, where he is 
quite alone, and on Sundays to dine with his father 
and mother at the debtors’ prison! He might have 
become a thief or a beggar; it is a wonder he did 
not die, like so many others in like circumstances 
with such weak bodies. 

But he lived, became in a few years a shorthand 
reporter with a very good salary, and at twenty- 
five he was the famous author of Pickwick. Now 
all is changed. Money comes rolling in. Friends 
crowd around him. Piles of letters tell how many 
thousands of people love him, even worship him, 
and he even hears of a dying man who, as the 
clergyman leaves him after performing his sacred 
office, is heard to murmur, “Thank God, the next 
number of Pickwick will be out in ten days!” 

What a contrast is this to the life of Thackeray, 
who was brought up and educated in comfort and 
good society, who became an artist and a writer of 


6 


DICKENS 


articles for magazines and weekly papers, never 
tasting fame until he was thirty-six, and then in 
far greater moderation than Dickens did! 

Born in the Deepest Poverty. 

A knowledge of Dickens’ early life is absolutely 
necessary to an understanding of his character. He 
had no ancestors worth mentioning, even by the 
author of his three- volume biography. John Dick- 
ens, his father, was a poor clerk in the navy pay 
office, stationed at Portsmouth at the time of 
Charles’s birth. There was an elder sister, Fanny, 
born in 1810. Charles, the second child, entered in 
the baptismal register as Charles John Huffham 
Dickens, was born at Landport, in Portsea, Febru- 
ary 7, 1812. Four boys and two girls were born 
later, two of whom died in childhood, and only one, 
the elder sister, survived the famous brother. 

John Dickens’s duties called him from Ports- 
mouth to London when Charles was still very small, 
but soon after, when the boy was not yet five years 
old, they moved to Chatham. Not far away was the 
house called Gadshill Place, afterward famous as 
the final home of Dickens in the days of his wealth 
and prosperity. “Often had we traveled past it to- 
gether,” says John Forster, Dickens’s friend and 
biographer, “years and years before it became his 
home, and never without some allusion to what he 
told me when first I saw it in his company, that 
amid the recollections connected with his childhood 
it held always a prominent place, for, upon first 
seeing it as he came from Chatham with his father, 
and looking up at it with much admiration, he had 


LIFE 


7 


been promised that he might himself live in it, or 
in some such house, when he came to be a man, if 
he would only work hard enough. Which for a 
long time was his ambition.” 

In one of his essays on travel Dickens himself 
tells a very pretty little story about Gadshill — and 
himself — which is well worth repeating. As he 
passes along the road to Canterbury there crosses 
his path a vision of his former self: 

“So smooth was the old highroad, and so fresh 
were the horses, and so fast went I, that it was 
midway between Gravesend and Rochester, and the 
widening river was bearing the ships, white-sailed 
or black-smoked, out to sea, when I noticed by the 
wayside a very queer small boy. 

“ ‘Holloa !’ said I to the very queer small boy, 
‘where do you live?’ 

“‘At Chatham,’ says he. 

“ ‘What do you do there ?’ says I. 

“ ‘I go to school,’ says he. 

“I took him up in a moment and we went on. 
Presently the very queer small boy says, ‘This is 
Gadshill we are coming to, where Falstaff went out 
to rob those travellers, and ran away.’ 

“‘You know something about Falstaff, eh?' said I. 

“ ‘All about him,’ said the very queer small boy. 
‘I am old (I am nine), and I read all sorts of 
books. But do let us stop at the top of the hill and 
look at the house there, if you please!’ 

“‘You admire that house?’ said I. 

“‘Bless you, sir/ said the very queer small boy, 
‘when I was not more than half as old as nine it 


8 


DICKENS 


used to be a treat for me to be brought to look 
at it. And now I am nine, I come by myself to 
look at it. And ever since I can recollect my 
father, seeing me so fond of it, has often said to 
me, If you were to be very persevering and were 
to work hard, you might some day come to live in 
it. Though that’s impossible!’ said the very queer 
small boy, drawing a low breath, and now staring 
at the house out of the window with all his might. 

“I was rather amazed to be told this by the very 
queer small boy, for that house happens to be my 
house, and I have reason to believe that what he 
said was true.” 

Who will fail to guess who the “very queer small 
boy” was? 

Fancies of Childhood. 

He was sickly, being subject to attacks of violent 
spasms; so he could not play at cricket or marbles 
or prisoner’s base with the other boys. But he 
watched the others playing, while he read. His 
mother taught him to read and write his own lan- 
guage and even a little Latin. In time he was sent 
to a poor little school over a dyer’s shop. Even at 
that early age what an imagination he had! In 
after years he could laugh at his childish fancies. 
He tells us “how he thought the Rochester High 
street must be at least as wide as Regent street, 
which he afterward discovered to be little better 
than a lane; how the public clock in it, supposed 
to be the finest clock .-in the world, turned out to 
be as moon-faced and weak a clock as man’s eyes 


LIFE 


ever saw; and how in its town hall, which had 
appeared to him once so glorious a structure that 
he had set it up in his mind as the model on which 
the genie of the lamp built the palace for Aladdin, 
he had painfully to recognize a mere mean little 
heap of bricks, like a chapel gone demented. Yet 
not so painfully, either, when second thoughts wisely 
came. “Ah ! who was I that I should quarrel with 
the town for being changed to me, when I myself 
had come back so changed, to it? All my early 
readings and early imaginations dated from this 
place, and I took them away so full of innocent 
construction and guileless belief, and I brought them 
back so worn and torn, so much the wiser and so 
much the worse.” 

All the world knows that David Copperheld is 
full of Dickens’s own life. Out of many passages 
literally true here is one distinctly so : 

“My father had left a small collection of books 
in a little room upstairs to which I had access (for 
it adjoined my own), and which nobody else in our 
house ever troubled. From that blessed little room 
Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey 
Clinker, Tom Jones, The Vicar of Wakeheld, Don 
Quixote, Gil Bias and Robinson Crusoe came out, 
a glorious host, to keep me company. They kept 
alive my fancy and my hope of something beyond 
that place and time — they and the Arabian Nights 
and the Tales of the Genii — and did me no harm; 
for whatever harm was in some of them was not 
there for me; I knew nothing of it. It is aston- 
ishing to me now how I found time, in the midst 


10 


DICKENS 


of my porings and blunderings over heavier themes, 
to read these books as I did. It is curious to me 
how I could ever have consoled myself under my 
small troubles (which were great troubles to me), 
by impersonating my favourite character in them. 

. . . I have been Tom Jones (a child’s Tom 
Jones, a harmless creature) for a week together. 
I have sustained my own ideas of Roderick Ran- 
dom for a month at a stretch, I verily believe. 
. . . I have seen Tom Pipes go climbing up the 
church steeple ; I have watched Strap, with the 
knapsack on his back, stopping to rest himself upon 
the wicket gate ; and I know that Commodore 
Trunnion held that club with Mr. Pickle in the 
parlor of our little village ale house.” 

It was not long before the child took to spinning 
stories himself for his little friends, singing small 
comic songs between whiles, and doing both so well 
that he used to be put up on chairs and tables, at 
home and abroad, for the entertainment of what- 
ever party might be gathered. He was taken to the 
theater at a very early age, and soon he and his 
cousin James Lamert had fitted up a room in the 
deserted barracks, where they presented plays of 
their own. 

When the boy was but little more than nine, his 
father was assigned to duty at Somerset House, 
London, and Charles had to leave the happiest 
scenes of his early life. Besides the stories already 
mentioned he had read the Spectator, the Tatler. 
the Idler, the Citizen of the World, and Mrs. Inch- 
bald’s Collection of Farces, and the night he left 


LIFE 11 

Chatham his good schoolmaster presented him with 
a copy of Goldsmith’s Bee. 

Now all his childish happiness was at an end. 
He was not to go to school any more, and his 
home was in a wretched house in Bayham street, 
Camden-town. A washerwoman lived next door, and 
a Bow-street police officer over the way. There 
were no other little boys with whom he could play, 
and the family lived in the poorest and meanest 
way. jX 

His Father is Mr. Micawber. 

We have the portrait of John Dickens in the 
“Mr. Micawber” of David Copperdeld, who was al- 
ways hopefully expecting something to turn up, but 
forever remaining in hot water because of his shift- 
lessness. In spite of his small but steady and in- 
creasing income from his clerkship, the elder Dick- 
ens got deeper and deeper into debt, was obliged to 
make terms with his creditors by turning over to 
them his small property, and all the family scraped 
and screwed to make both ends meet. Those who 
have experienced the hardships of downright pov- 
erty will know at once what the sickly little boy 
was compelled to suffer, and those who have not 
had that experience will never know. 

Yet his father was not a bad man. “I know my 
father to be as kind-hearted and generous a man as 
ever lived in the world,” he once wrote himself. 
“Everything that I can remember of his conduct 
to his wife, or children, or friends, in sickness or 
affliction, is beyond all praise. By me, as a sick 
child, he has watched night and day, unweariedly 


12 


DICKENS 


and patiently, many nights and days. He never 
undertook any business, charge, or trust, that he did 
not zealously, conscientiously, punctually, honourably 
discharge. His industry has always been untiring. 
He was proud of me, in his way, and had a great 
admiration of the comic singing. But, in the ease 
of his temper, and the straitness of his means, he 
appeared to have utterly lost at this time the idea 
of educating me at all, and to have utterly put 
from him the notion that I had any claim upon 
him in that regard whatever. So I degenerated into 
cleaning his boots of a morning, and my own, and 
making myself useful in the work of the house, and 
looking after my younger brothers and sisters (we 
were now six in all), and going on such poor er- 
rands as rose out of our poor way of living.” 

His cousin, James Lamert, painted a little theater 
for him, which was his only amusement. Then his 
sister Fanny was elected a pupil to the Royal Acad- 
emy of Music: he felt it a stab to the heart that 
she should go away with all the good wishes of 
the family and he remain at home unnoticed. 

As affairs got worse and worse, Mrs. Dickens 
determined to help support the family by starting 
a school. She took a house in Gower street and 
placed a large brass plate on the door announcing 
“Mrs. Dickens’s Establishment.” But let Dickens 
tell the rest: “I left at a great many other doors 
a great many circulars calling attention to the 
merits of the establishment. Yet nobody ever came 
to school, nor do I recollect that anybody ever pro- 
posed to come, or that the least preparation was 


LIFE 


13 


ever made to receive anybody. But I know that 
we got on very badly with the butcher and baker; 
that very often we had not too much for dinner; 
and that at last my father was arrested.” 

His Father in Prison for Debt. 

We now see the pitiful little lad running errands 
for his father in prison, delivering his messages with 
swollen eyes and through shining tears ; and the 
final words said to him by his father before he was 
carried to the Marshalsea were to the effect that 
the sun was set upon him forever. “I really be- 
lieved at the time,” said Dickens afterward, “that 
they had broken my heart.” 

When the father was at last gone to prison, little 
Charles kept going every day to the pawnbroker’s 
shop, till everything in the house at Gower street 
had been disposed of except a few chairs, a kitchen 
table, and some beds. Then they encamped, as it 
were, in the two parlors of the emptied house, and 
lived there night and day. At last James Lamert 
found a position for Charles, and Mrs. Dickens and 
the smaller children went to live with Mr. Dickens 
at the prison itself. 

Bitter as had been the hardships already endured, 
those upon which he now entered were so much 
worse that for years he was unable even to speak 
of them to his most intimate friends. After many 
years of prosperity and success, however, he was 
able to look back upon those years with some 
appreciation of their humor and their pathos, and 
in David Copperfield, as well as in a fragment of 


14 


DICKENS 


autobiography, he has told in detail the experi- 
ences of those boyhood days, when he earned his 
own living in a blacking factory. 

A Child, Alone, Working All Day. 

“The blacking warehouse was the last on the 
left-hand side of the way, at old Hungerford Stairs. 
It was a crazy, tumble-down old house, abutting, 
of course, on the river, and literally overrun with 
rats. Its wainscoted rooms and its rotten floors 
and staircase, and the old gray rats swarming down 
in the cellars, and the sound of their squeaking and 
scuffling coming up the stairs at all times, and the 
dirt and decay of the place, rise up visibly before 
me as if I were there again. The counting-house 
was on the first floor, looking over the coal barges 
and the river. There was a recess in it, in which 
I was to sit and work. My work was to cover the 
pots of paste-blacking ; first with a piece of oil paper 
and then with a piece of blue paper; to tie them 
round with a string and then to clip the paper close 
and neat all round until it looked as smart as a pot 
of ointment from an apothecary’s shop. When a 
certain number of grosses of pots had attained 
this pitch of perfection I was to paste on each a 
printed label, and then go on again with more pots. 
Two or three other boys were kept at similar duty 
downstairs on similar wages. One of them came 
up in a ragged apron and a paper cap on the first 
Monday morning to show me the trick of using 
the string and tying the knots. His name was Bob 


LIFE 15 

Fagin, and I took the liberty of using his name, long 
afterward, in Oliver Twist. 

“No words can express the agony of my soul 
as I sunk into this companionship ; compared these 
every-day associates with those of my happier 
childhood ; and felt my early hopes of growing up 
to be a learned and distinguished man crushed in 
my breast. The deep remembrance of the sense I 
had of being utterly neglected and hopeless; of the 
shame I felt in my position; of the misery it was 
to my young heart to believe that, day by day, what 
I had learned, and thought, and delighted in, and 
raised my fancy and - my emulation up by, was 
passing away from me, never to be brought back 
any more ; cannot be written. My whole nature was 
so penetrated with the grief and humiliation of such 
considerations that even now, famous and caressed 
and happy, I often forget in my dreams that I have 
a dear wife and children; even that I am a man; 
and wander desolately back to that time of my 
life.” 

After the house in Gower street had been closed 
he was handed over as a lodger to a reduced old 
lady who took children to board. We find her por- 
trait, with a few “ornaments and embellishments,” 
as Mrs. Pipchin in Dombey & Son. 

“She had a little brother and sister under her 
care then, who were very irregularly paid for; and 
a widow’s little son. The two boys and I slept in 
the same room. My own exclusive breakfast of a 
penny cottage loaf and a pennyworth of milk I pro- 
vided for myself. I kept another small loaf, and a 


16 


DICKENS 


quarter of a pound of cheese, on a particular shelf 
of a particular cupboard, to make my supper on 
when I came back at night. They made a hole in 
the six or seven shillings, I know well ; and I was 
out at the blacking warehouse all day, and had to 
support myself upon that money all the week. I 
suppose my lodging was paid for by my father. I 
certainly did not pay it myself ; and I certainly had 
no other assistance whatever .(the making of my 
clothes, I think, excepted), from Monday morning 
till Saturday night; no advice, no counsel, no en- 
couragement, no consolation, no support, from any 
one that I can call to mind, so help me God. 

“Sundays Fanny and I passed in the prison. I 
was at the academy in Tenterden street, Hanover 
Square, at nine o’clock in the morning, to fetch her ; 
and we walked back there together at night. 

“I was so young and childish, and so little quali- 
fied — how could I be otherwise? — to undertake the 
whole charge of my own existence, that, in going 
to Hungerford Stairs of a morning I could not 
resist the stale pastry put out at half price on 
trays at the confectioners’ doors in Tottenham Court 
Road; and I often spent in that the money I should 
have kept for my dinner. Then I went without my 
dinner, or bought a roll, or a slice of pudding. There 
were two pudding shops between which I was di- 
vided according to my finances. One was in a 
court close to St. Martin’s Church (at the back of 
the church), which is now removed altogether. The 
pudding at that shop was made with currants, and 
was rather a special pudding, but was dear: two 


LIFE 


17 


penn’orth not being larger than a penn’orth of more 
ordinary pudding. A good shop for the latter was 
in the Strand, somewhere near where the Lowther 
Arcade is now. It was a stout, hale pudding, heavy 
and flabby, with great raisins in it, stuck in whole, 
at great distance apart. It came up hot, at about 
noon every day; and many and many a day did I 
dine off it. . . . 

“I know I do not exaggerate, unconsciously and 
unintentionally, the scantiness of my resources and 
the difficulties of my life. I know that if a shilling 
or so were given me by any one I spent it in a 
dinner or a tea. I know that I worked, from morn- 
ing to night, with common men and boys, a shabby 
child. I know that I tried, but ineffectually, not to 
anticipate my money, and to make it last the week 
through; by putting it away in a drawer I had in 
the counting house, wrapped into six little parcels, 
each parcel containing the same amount and 
labeled with a different day. I know that I have 
lounged about the streets, insufficiently and unsat- 
isfactorily fed. I know that, but for the mercy of 
God, I might easily have been, for any care that 
was taken of me, a little robber or a little vaga- 
bond.” 

What loneliness he suffered! When at last he 
persuaded his father to provide a room for him near 
the prison he thought he was in Paradise. 

He Gets a Little Education. 

At last his father went through the bankruptcy 
courts and got out of prison. Once more the fam- 


18 


DICKENS 


ily lived together under a common roof, and ways 
were found to send Charles to school for a few 
years. 

The schooling did not last long, but he was now 
stronger in body, for he had enough to eat. He 
was given a place as a clerk in a lawyer’s office. 
Here he saw the advantages of knowing shorthand 
writing. In David Copperdeld he has told what a 
struggle David had in mastering the difficult art. 

Out of the hardships and struggles that surround- 
ed him Dickens raised himself, and he has told us 
how he did it: “Whatever I have tried to do in 
life,” he says, “I have tried with all my heart to do 
well. What I have devoted myself to I have de- 
voted myself to completely. Never to put one hand 
to anything on which I could throw my whole 
self, and never to affect depreciation of my work, 
whatever it was, I find now to have been my golden 
rules.” 

A Shorthand Reporter. 

He mastered shorthand at last, and in time, soon 
after he was nineteen, he got into the reporters’ 
gallery of the House of Commons. 

Dickens was a good reporter. Says he: “I have 
often transcribed for the printer, from my shorthand 
notes, important public speeches in which strictest 
accuracy was required, and a mistake in which 
would have been to a young man severely compro- 
mising, writing on the palm of my hand, by the 
light of a dark lantern, in a postchaise and four, 
galloping through a wild country and through the 
dead of the night, at the then surprising rate of 


LIFE 


19 


fifteen miles an hour. . . . Returning home from 
political meetings, I do verily believe I have been 
upset in almost every description of vehicle known 
in this country. I have been, in my time, belated on 
miry by-roads, toward the small hours, forty or 
fifty miles from London, in a wheelless carriage, 
with exhausted horses and drunken postboys, and 
have got back in time for publication, to be re- 
ceived with never-forgotten compliments by the late 
Mr. Black, coming in the broadest of Scotch from 
the broadest of hearts I ever knew.” 

He attained to five guineas a week ($25) as a re- 
porter on the Morning Chronicle. Then there came 
a change. 

His First Stories. 

In the December number (1833) of the Old 
Monthly Magazine was published a paper under the 
title “A Dinner at Poplar Walk” (since known as 
“Mr. Minns and His Cousin”). Dickens has him- 
self told the story of this first literary venture, how 
one evening at twilight, with fear and trembling, he 
stealthily dropped the manuscript into a dark letter- 
box in a dark office up a dark court in Fleet street. 
He has also told with what agitation of delight he be- 
held his first work in print. He purchased the maga- 
zine at a shop in the Strand; and exactly two years 
afterward, in Mr. Hall, of the firm of Chapman 
& Hall, who called upon him in his chambers to 
propose the writing of Pickwick, he recognized the 
man who had sold him this copy of the Old Monthly. 
After making the purchase, says he, “I walked down 
to Westminster Hall, and turned into it for half 


20 


DICKENS 


an hour, because my eyes were so dimmed with joy 
and pride that they could not bear the street, and 
were not fit to be seen there.” 

For two years he cQntinued his work in the re- 
porters’ gallery, but regularly every month a sketch 
appeared in the Monthly, until the editor confessed 
there was no chance of his paying the young author. 
But the sketches had at least brought a little repu- 
tation, and when an evening paper was started in 
connection with the Morning Chronicle, Dickens 
was invited to give his sketches to that periodical, 
in consideration of which his salary was raised 
from five to seven guineas a week (from $25 to $35). 

He was not quite twenty-two when his first sketch 
appeared in the Old Monthly. After two brief 
years of what may be called apprentice work, he 
collected his sketches into two volumes under the 
title Sketches by Boz. (And, by the way, the 
origin of the pseudonymn “Boz” is of some interest. 
We commonly pronounce it with the o short, to 
rhyme with because. It was derived from Moses, 
however. Dickens’s younger brother Augustus 
had been nicknamed Moses in honor of the Vicar 
of Wakeiield; this had been shortened to “Mos”; 
and, being pronounced through the nose for humor- 
ous effect, became “Boses” or “Boz.”) 

young publisher named Macrone bought the 
copyright of two volumes of sketches for a condi- 
tional payment of £150 ($750). This seemed to 
Dickens a very good sum at the time, as he was 
going to be married (April 2, 1836) to Catherine, 
eldest daughter of George Hogarth. Less than a 


LIFE 


21 


year and a half later, to protect himself, he was 
obliged to purchase back the copyright of these 
sketches, paying the enormous sum of £2,000 
($ 10 , 000 ). 

Pickwick. 

Almost immediately after Macrone bought the 
Sketches, Mr. Hall, of the young and ambitious firm 
of Chapman & Hall, waited on Dickens in his cham- 
bers at Furnival’s Inn and asked him if he yrould 
provide the letter-press to go with a series of cock- 
ney sporting sketches to be drawn by the artist 
Seymour. The firm had already published a book 
called the Squib Annual, illustrated by Mr. Seymour, 
and after the success of this he proposed his sport- 
ing sketches. The publishers wrote to the author of 
Three Courses and a Dessert to know if he would 
provide the text; but as he made no reply, and Sey- 
mour pressed for an answer, Mr. Hall applied to 
Dickens. He knew little of the young man’s work 
on the Chronicle, but had been pleased with “The 
Tuggses at Ramsgate,” a sketch one of their ed- 
itors had secured from him. 

Dickens proposed “The Pickwick Club” as a fair 
substitute for the club of sporting cockneys, and 
the publishers consented that Seymour should take 
his cue from Dickens’s text, instead of Dickens 
writing up to the artist’s pictures. 

So “The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick 
Club, edited by Boz,” was announced in the Times 
March 26, 1836 (when Dickens was barely twenty- 
four years old). The work was to be published in 


22 


DICKENS 


monthly parts, in paper covers, at one shilling each. 
The publishers were to pay him fifteen guineas 
(about $ 75 ) for each number, and Mr. Chapman 
afterward said Pickwick cost them altogether about 
£300 ($ 1 , 500 ). The first two payments were made 
at once, as Dickens “needed the money to go and 
get married with.” Soon after this he gave up his 
newspaper work. 

Only four hundred copies of the first part of 
Pickwick were printed and bound. The sale gradu- 
ally increased through the second, third, and fourth 
numbers, but the importance of the serial as a seller 
was not realized until Sam Weller appeared in the 
fifth number. In the meantime the artist Seymour 
had committed suicide before the second number 
appeared, and his place had been taken by Hablot 
Browne, long associated with Dickens as the il- 
lustrator of his work. 

The success of Pickwick is one of the wonders 
of literary history. A mere disconnected series 
of amusing sketches, published in unpretentious 
and ephemeral form, it not only attained what was 
for those times the enormous sale of 40,000 copies 
monthly, but it produced such an effect on the peo- 
ple that everybody talked about it, tradesmen 
labelled their goods “Pickwick,” and judges on the 
bench as well as boys in the street went into hys- 
terics over it; and afterward Carlyle was able to tell 
the following amusing tale, already referred to : 
“An archdeacon, with his own venerable lips, re- 
peated to me the other night a strange profane 
story: of a solemn clergyman who had been ad- 


LIFE 


23 


ministering ghostly consolation to a sick person ; hav- 
ing finished, satisfactorily as he thought, and got 
out of the room, he heard the sick person ejaculate, 
‘Well, thank God, Pickwick will be out in ten days 
any way !’ This is dreadful.” 

As the sixth number of Pickwick was about to 
appear, Dickens signed an engagement with the pub- 
lisher Bentley to edit a new monthly magazine, to 
be known as Bentley’s Miscellany, and to contribute 
to it a serial story, which in due time took form as 
Oliver Twist. Soon this story began to appear side 
by side with Pickwick. Dickens, wrote each as the 
printer called for copy, and never was he a week 
in advance with either story. The publication of 
Pickwick was interrupted for two months after the 
twelfth number, owing to the death of his wife’s 
younger sister, to whom he was deeply attached, and 
whose death rendered him incapable of writing. 
But after the lapse of this interval he took up the 
writing again in the same manner, and carried it on 
to the end; and when Pickwick was finished, he im- 
mediately began Nicholas Nickleby, which was to 
follow it in the same mode of publication. 

How He Wrote. 

It is impossible to understand the character of the 
novels of either Dickens or Thackeray, unless we 
keep in mind the mode of publication. Each monthly 
number consisted of thirty-two ordinary book pages. 
These must be more or less replete with interest 
in themselves. The first number was invariably 
published before the subsequent ones were written, 


24 


DICKENS 


and the publication was carried on month after 
month as long as the author’s invention lasted and 
the public did not tire. If either failed, it was easy 
to stop at any time. Unity or plot and development 
of character had little encouragement. If a certain 
character seemed to please the public, it was carried 
on; and if it failed to please, it was summarily 
dropped and new characters introduced in its place. 
So long as the interest could be maintained, ex- 
pansion was the rule of the day, and failing interest 
was not remedied by artistic compression, but by 
summarily chopping the story short. 

It is true that by degrees Dickens learned to con- 
ceive his novels as a whole, until in David Copper- 
Held and A Tale of Two Cities we find stories mar- 
velously well constructed, considering the way in 
which they were written. 

The spirit in which Dickens took his sudden suc- 
cess we may judge from the following extract from 
a letter to his intimate friend Forster, afterwards 
his biographer. “I am slippered and jacketed,” he 
says, “and, like that same starling who is very sel- 
dom quoted, can’t get out. I am getting on, thank 
heaven, like ‘a house o’ fire,’ and think the next 
Pickwick will bang all the others. I shall expect 
you at once, and we will walk to the stable to- 
gether [they were to take their usual horseback 
ride]. If you know anybody at St. Paul’s, I wish 
you’d send round and ask them not to ring the bell 
so. I can hardly hear my own ideas as they come 
into my head, and say what they mean.” 

He signed reckless contracts, or made no con- 


LIFE 


25 


tracts at all, with his publishers, and then bought 
them out for an amount much above what they had 
paid him. He had not only signed with Bentley for 
Oliver Twist, but for another novel to follow that. 
When the time came for writing that other novel 
he was unable to do it, and finally Mr. Bentley re- 
leased him from the engagement on condition of his 
buying back the copyright of Oliver Twist for 
£2,200. At the same time he resigned the editor- 
ship of the Miscellany. 

His relations with Chapman & Hall were more 
satisfactory, and they continued to be his publishers 
during the writing of The Old Curiosity Shop, 
Barnaby Rudge, American Notes, Martin Chuz- 
zlewit, and the Christmas Carol. The sales in 
monthly parts of The Old Curiosity Shop reached 
80,000, but the sales of Chuzzlewit fell to 20,000, 
and the returns from the Christmas Carol, which 
was immensely popular and was published on com- 
mission by Chapman & Hall, fell so far below his 
expectations that Dickens decided to try Bradbury 
& Evans, publishers of Punch. On March 30, 1850, 
Dickens started a weekly periodical which he called 
Household Words. It proved profitable, but in 1859, 
owing to a dispute with Bradbury & Evans in re- 
gard to their share in the copyright of this publica- 
tion, it was sold and Dickens bought it, immediately 
discontinuing it and starting in its place All the Year 
Round, another periodical of similar character. At 
the same time he returned to Chapman & Hall, who 
remained his publishers until his death. 


28 DICKENS 

American Notes. 

In January, 1842, at the age of thirty, Dickens 
made his first visit to America. He was received 
with great enthusiasm, his public readings were im- 
mensely successful, and on his return to England 
he published his American Notes. This book gave 
great offense, not so much because Dickens made 
any serious misstatements in regard to the country 
whose hospitality he had enjoyed, but because he 
made sensational copy for his volume by telling 
many disagreeable anecdotes in a disagreeable way, 
and because he failed to express any appreciation 
of the hospitality he had received. When he began 
Martin Chuzzlewit the sales fell off to such an ex- 
tent that he attempted to revive the drooping inter- 
est by announcing unexpectedly that he meant to 
take Martin to America. The effect of the Amer- 
ican chapters in Martin Chuzzlewit may best be de- 
scribed by quoting from a letter written by Dickens 
himself. Says he, “I gather from a letter I have 
had this morning that Martin has made them all 
stark, staring mad across the water. Don’t you 
think the time has come when I ought to state that 
such public entertainments as I received in the States 
were either accepted before I went out, or in the 
first week after my arrival there; and that as soon 
as I began to have any acquaintance with the coun- 
try I set my face against any public recognition 
whatever but that which was forced upon me to 
the destruction of my peace and comfort — and made 


LIFE 27 

no secret of my real sentiments.” If Dickens meant 
this for a defense, it seems a pretty poor one. 

How differently did Thackeray act, both in re- 
fraining from publishing any American notes, and 
in writing his Virginians! The truth is, success de- 
veloped in Dickens a vanity and egotism which 
showed themselves very distinctly in the hardening 
of his features as he grew older. His lack of tact 
and taste were still more disagreeably illustrated by 
the statements and letters he published concerning 
his separation from his wife in 1858. The separation 
was arranged amicably and without scandal, and 
the eldest son went to live with the mother, to 
whom Dickens made a liberal allowance. The odd 
part of the affair is that Mrs. Dickens’s younger sis- 
ter, Georgiana Hogarth, remained on intimate terms 
with her brother-in-law until his death, and that 
Dickens felt called upon to make a public statement 
in Household Words. 

Development of His Literary Power. 

After the first rush of work incident to the suc- 
cess of his early publications, Dickens spent much 
of his time on the Continent, travelling from place to 
place with his large and constantly increasing fam- 
ily. He occupied various houses in London, and 
soon after his separation from his wife bought Gads- 
hill Place, which was the home of his last years. 

But however disagreeable Dickens’s manners may 
have shown themselves, his literary style and his 
literary work were unaffected. It is true that such 
works as Hard Times and Great Expectations were 


28 


DICKENS 


written merely for the money they would bring at 
a time when the author’s mind was exhausted, but 
there is no more artistic creation in modern fiction 
than A Tale of Two Cities, with which he began 
the publication of All the Year Round; and next to 
this stands David Copperheld, produced midway be- 
tween the Tale of Two Cities and Pickwick. Dick- 
ens’s sole object in Pickwick was to amuse the pub- 
lic. As the work progressed he began to feel his 
wonderful power over human sentiment and emo- 
tion, and the story becomes proportionately more 
serious and representative of the vital principles of 
human nature. In David Copperheld he wrote, in 
effect, his own early history. He threw himself 
into the task with a serious earnestness shown in 
none of his previous work. In Pickwick he had 
shown himself the master humorist of his age; in 
Copperheld he proved himself the supreme master 
of that vast realm of sentiment which makes up 
the greater part of the lives of most of us. In the 
Tale of Two Cities, again, Dickens produced a story 
purely impersonal, dramatic, artistic, the work of 
the creative imagination. But in all three of these 
different classes of literary production we find 
the same peculiarly exuberant, irresistible, overflow- 
ing style, constantly bursting forth like flower after 
flower on a rosebush coming into bloom, but each 
displaying a new and vivid rainbow hue. 

The World’s Most Popular Writer. 

Immense as was the popularity of Scott, enormous 
as have been the sales of some modern writers like 


LIFE 


29 


Zola, it is probable that the works of Dickens have 
been more read than those of any other writer, 
either of this century or of the world’s history. Not 
long ago one American publisher, in the space of 
five or six years, sold 700,000 complete sets of Dick- 
ens’s works at $10 a set; and this is but one of 
many editions produced by innumerable publishers. 

Dickens revisited America in November and De- 
cember, 1867, when most of the unpleasant feelings 
incident to his first visit were forgotten. He died 
June 9, 1870, from an effusion on the brain, the re- 
sult of a gradual breaking up of the nervous sys- 
tem, and what appeared to be incipient paralysis. 
He lies buried in Westminster Abbey. 

******* 

“The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club” is 
a series of amusing adventures of all kinds and de- 
scriptions, written quite without regard to plot or 
sequence. There are several complete stories in the 
book, but the most important is that describing the 
progress of Mrs. Bardell’s breach of promise suit. 
There are also many amusing characters, but even 
in the whole range of Dickens literature there is 
none so popular as Sam Weller. In the following 
pages this narrative and this character are fully 
presented. 



















. 






* 



























. 


















































- * • 




*. 






































. 











* 





















































TWO HOURS WITH PICKWICK 

Being a Complete Narrative of the Celebrated 
Breach of Promise Case of Bardell vs, 
Pickwick, with a Few Side Glan- 
ces at the Domestic History 
of the Samuel Wellers 

CHAPTER I. 

DESCRIPTIVE OF A VERY IMPORTANT 
PROCEEDING ON THE PART OF MR. 
PICKWICK; NO LESS AN EPOCH IN HIS 
LIFE, THAN IN THIS HISTORY. 

Mr. Pickwick’s apartments in Goswell street, 
although on a limited scale, were not only of a very 
neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly 
adapted for the residence of a man of his genius 
and observation. His sitting room was the first 
floor front, . his bedroom the second floor front ; 
and thus, whether he were sitting at his desk in 
the parlor or standing before the dressing glass in 
his dormitory he had an equal opportunity of con- 
templating human nature in all the numerous phases 
it exhibits in that not more populous than popular 
thoroughfare. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell — the 


82 


DICKENS 


relict and sole executrix of a deceased custom house 
officer — was a comely woman of bustling manners 
and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for 
cooking, improved by study and long practice into 
an exquisite talent. There were no children, ' no 
servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the 
house were a large man and a small boy!, the first 
a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell. 
The large man was always home precisely at ten 
o’clock at night, at which hour he regularly con- 
densed himself into the limits of a dwarfish French 
bedstead in the back parlor; and the infantile sports 
and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were 
exclusively confined to the neighbouring pavements 
and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned through- 
out the house; and in it Mr. Pickwick’s will was 
law. 

To anyone acquainted with these points of the 
domestic economy of the establishment and conver- 
sant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pick- 
wick’s mind, his appearance and behavior on the 
morning previous to that which had been fixed 
upon for the journey to Eatanswill, would have 
been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced 
the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his 
head out of the window at intervals of about three 
minutes each, constantly referred to his watch and 
exhibited many other manifestations of impatience, 
very unusual with him. It was evident that some- 
thing of great importance was in contemplation, but 
what that something was not even Mrs. Bardell 
herself had been enabled to discover. 


PICKWICK 


33 


“Mrs. Bardell,” said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that 
amiable female approached the termination of a 
prolonged dusting of the apartment — 

“Sir,” said Mrs. Bardell. 

“Your little boy is a very long time gone.” 

“Why it’s a good long way to the Borough, sir,” 
remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. 

“Ah,” said Mr. Pickwick, “very true; so it is.” 

Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bar- 
dell resumed her dusting. 

“Mrs. Bardell,” said Mr. Pickwick, at the expira- 
tion of a few minutes. 

“Sir,” said Mrs. Bardell again. 

“Do you think it’s a much greater expense to 
keep two people than to keep one?” 

“La, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mrs. Bardell, colouring 
up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she 
observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the 
eyes of her lodger; “La, Mr. Pickwick, what a 
question !” 

“Well, but do you?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“That depends — ” said Mrs. Bardell, approach- 
ing the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick’s elbow, 
which was placed on the table ; — “that depends a 
good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pick- 
wick; and whether it’s a saving and careful person, 
sir.” 

“That’s very true,” said Mr. Pickwick, “but the 
person I have in my eye (here he looked very hard 
at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities; 
and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of 


34 


DICKENS 


the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bar- 
dell ; which may be of material use to me.” 

“La, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mrs. Bardell; the crim- 
son rising to her cap-border again. 

“I do,” said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as 
was his wont in speaking of a subject which inter- 
ested him ; “I do, indeed ; and to tell you the truth, 
Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind.” 

“Dear me, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. 

“You’ll think it very strange now,” said the ami- 
able Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humoured glance at 
his companion, “that I never consulted you about 
this matter, and never even mentioned it till I sent 
your little boy out this morning — eh?” 

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She 
had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but 
here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to 
which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had 
never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to 
propose — a deliberate plan, too — sent her little boy 
to the* Borough to get him out of the way — how 
thoughtful — how considerate ! 

“Well,” said Mr. Pickwick; “what do you think?” 

“Oh, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mrs. Bardell, trembling 
with agitation, “you’re very kind, sir.” 

“It’ll save you a good deal of trouble, won’t it?” 
said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, 
sir,” replied Mrs. Bardell; “and, of course, I should 
take more trouble to please you then than ever; but 
it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much 
consideration for my loneliness.” 


PICKWICK 


35 


“Ah, to be sure,” said Mr. Pickwick; “I never 
thought of that. When I am in town, you’ll always 
have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you 
will.” 

“I’m sure I ought to be a very happy woman,” 
said Mrs. Bardell. 

“And your little boy — ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Bless his heart,” interposed Mrs. Bardell with a 
maternal sob. 

“He, too, will have a companion,” resumed Mr. 
Pickwick, “a lively one, who’ll teach him, I’ll be 
bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever 
learn in a year.” And Mr. Pickwick smiled plac- 
idly. 

“Oh, you dear — ” said Mrs. Bardell. 

Mr. Pickwick started. 

“Oh, you kind, good, playful dear,” said Mrs. 
Bardell; and without more ado, she arose from her 
chair and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick’s 
neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs. 

“Bless my soul,” cried the astonished Mr. Pick- 
wick; “Mrs. Bardell, my good woman — dear me, 
what a situation — pray consider. Mrs. Bardell, don’t 
— if anybody should come — ” 

“Oh, let them come,” exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, 
frantically; “I’ll never leave you — dear, kind, good 
soul”; and with these words Mrs. Bardell clung the 
tighter. 

“Mercy upon me,” said Mr. Pickwick, struggling 
violently. “I hear somebody coming up the stairs. 
Don’t, don’t, there’s a good creature, don’t.” But 
entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing: 


36 


DICKENS 


for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick’s 
arms; and before he could gain time to deposit her 
on a chair. Master Bardell entered the room, usher- 
ing in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass. 

Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speech- 
less. He stood with his lovely burden in his arms, 
gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, 
without the slightest attempt at recognition or ex- 
planation. They, in their turn, stared at him; and 
Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody. 

The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so ab- 
sorbing and the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so 
extreme that they might have remained in exactly 
the same relative situation until the suspended ani- 
mation of the lady was restored had it not been 
for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial 
affection on the part of her youthful son. Clad in a 
tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons 
of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the 
door astounded and uncertain; but by degrees the 
impression that his mother must have suffered some 
personal damage pervaded his partially developed 
mind, and considering Mr. Pickwick as the ag- 
gressor, he set up an appalling and semi-earthly 
kind of howling, and, butting forward with his 
head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman 
about the back and legs with such blows and pinches 
as the strength of his arm and the violence of his 
excitement allowed. 

“Take this little villain away,” said the agonized 
Mr. Pickwick; “he’s mad.” 


PICKWICK 37 

“What is the matter?” said the three tongue-tied 
Pickwickians. 

“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. 
“Take away the boy” — (here Mr. Winkle carried 
the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the 
further end of the apartment). “Now, help me lead 
this woman downstairs.” 

“Oh, I am better now,” said Mrs. Bardell, faintly. 

“Let me lead you downstairs,” said the ever gal- 
lant Mr. Tupman. 

“Thank you, sir — thank you,” exclaimed Mrs. 
Bardell, hysterically. And downstairs she was led 
accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son. 

“I cannot conceive — ” said Mr. Pickwick, when 
his friend returned — “I cannot conceive what has 
been the matter with that woman. I had merely 
announced to her my intention of keeping a man 
servant, when she fell into the extraordinary par- 
oxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary 
thing.” 

“Very,” said his three friends. 

“Placed me in such an extremely awkward situ- 
ation,” continued Mr. Pickwick. 

“Very,” was the reply of his followers, as they 
coughed slightly and looked dubiously at each other. 

This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. 
He remarked their incredulity. They evidently sus- 
pected him. 

“There is a man in the passage now,” said Mr. 
Tupman. 

“It’s the man I spoke to you about,” said Mr. 
Pickwick. “I sent for him to the Borough this 


38 DICKENS 

morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snod- 
grass” 

Mr. Snodgrass did as he was desired; and Mr. 
Samuel Weller forthwith presented himself. 

“Oh — you remember me, I suppose?” said Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“I should think so,” replied Sam with a patron- 
izing wink. “Queer start that ’ere,’ but he was 
one too many for you, warn’t he? Up to snuff 
and a pinch or two over — eh?” 

“Never mind that matter now,” said Mr. Pick- 
wick, hastily. “I want to speak to you about some- 
thing else. Sit down.” 

“Thank’ee, sir,” said Sam. And down he sat 
without further bidding, having previously deposited 
his old white hat on the landing outside the door. 
“Ta’nt a werry good ’un to look at,” said Sam, 
“but it’s an astonishin’ ’un to wear; and afore the 
brim went, it was a werry handsome tile. Hows’- 
ever it’s lighter without it, that’s one thing, and 
every hole lets in some air, that’s another — wentila- 
tion gossamer I calls it.” On the delivery of this 
sentiment Mr. Weller smiled agreeably upon the 
assembled Pickwickians. 

“Now, with regard to the matter on which I, with 
the concurrence of these gentlemen, sent for you,” 
said Mr. Pickwick. 

“That’s the pint, sir,” interposed Sam; “out vith 
it, as the father said to the child wen he swallowed 
a farden.” 

“We want to know, in the first place,” said Mr. 


PICKWICK 39 

Pickwick, “whether you have any reason to be dis- 
contented with your present situation.” 

“Afore I answers that ’ere question, gen’lm’n,” 
replied Mr. Weller, “I should like to know, in the 
first place, whether you’re a goin’ to purwide me 
with a better.” 

A sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. 
Pickwick’s features as he said, “I have half made 
up my mind to engage you myself.” 

“Have you, though?” said Sam. 

Mr. Pickwick nodded in the affirmative. 

“Wages?” inquired Sam. 

“Twelve pounds a year,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“Clothes?” 

“Two suits.” 

“Work?” 

“To attend upon me; and travel about with me 
and these gentlemen here.” 

“Take the bill down,” said Sam, emphatically. 
“I’m let to a single gentleman, and the terms is 
agreed upon.” 

“You accept the situation?” inquired Mr. Pick- 
wick. 

“Cert’nly,” replied Sam. “If the clothes fits me 
half as well as the place, they’ll do.” 

“You can get a character, of course?” said Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“Ask the landlady o’ the White Hart about that, 
sir,” replied Sam. 

“Can you come this evening?” 

“I’ll get into the clothes this minute if they’re 
here,” said Sam with great alacrity. 


40 


DICKENS 


“Call at eight this evening,” said Mr. Pickwick; 
“and if the inquiries are satisfactory they shall be 
provided.” 

With the single exception of one amiable indis- 
cretion, in which an assistant housemaid had equally 
participated, the history of Mr. Weller’s conduct was 
so very blameless that Mr. Pickwick felt fully jus- 
tified in closing the engagement that very evening. 
With the promptness and energy which character- 
ized not only the public proceedings but all the 
private actions of this extraordinary man, he at 
once led his new attendant to one of those con- 
venient emporiums where gentlemen’s new and sec- 
ond-hand clothes are provided, and the troublesome 
and inconvenient formality of measurement dis- 
pensed with; and before night had closed in, Mr. 
Weller was furnished with a gray coat v/ith the 
“P. C.” button, a black hat with a cockade to it, a 
pink striped waistcoat, light breeches and gaiters 
and a variety of other necessaries too numerous to 
recapitulate. 

“Well,” said that suddenly-transformed individual, 
as he took his seat on the outside of the Eatanswill 
coach next morning, “I wonder wether I’m meant 
to be a footman, or a groom, or a gamekeeper, or a 
seedsman. I looks like a sort of compo of every 
one on ’em. Never mind; there’s change of air, 
plenty to see, and little to do; and all this suits my 
complaint uncommon; so long life to the Pickvicks 
says I!” 


PICKWICK 


41 


CHAPTER II. 

BRIEFLY ILLUSTRATING THE FORCE OF 
CIRCUMSTANCES. 

(Little suspecting that anything momentous in his 
life and career had happened that morning in Gos- 
well street, Mr. Pickwick and his new servant went 
into the country with his friends and followers, 
fellow members of the Pickwick Club, Mr. Snod- 
grass, Mr. Tupman, and Mr. Winkle, and had many 
agreeable and diverting experiences as the guests 
of their friend Mr. Wardle. 

Now, Mr. Tupman had had a very romantic and 
not very creditable rapprochement with Miss Rachel 
Wardle, a maiden lady of fifty, and Mr. Winkle had 
just related an adventure involving a malicious libel 
in the pages of the Eatanswill Independent.) 

Mr. Pickwick’s brow darkened during the re- 
cital. He struck the table emphatically with his 
clenched fist, and spoke as follows: 

“Is it not a wonderful circumstance,” said Mr. 
Pickwick, “that we seem destined to enter no man’s 
house, without involving him in some degree of 
trouble? Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscre- 
tion, or, worse than that, the blackness of heart — 
that I should say so!— of my followers, that 'be- 
neath whatever roof they locate, they disturb the 
peace of mind and happiness of some confiding fe- 
male? Is it not, I say ” 


42 


DICKENS 


Mr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone 
on for some time, had not the entrance of Sam, 
with a letter, caused him to break off in his elo- 
quent discourse. He passed his handkerchief across 
his forehead, took off his spectacles, wiped them, 
and put them on again ; and his voice had recovered 
its wonted softness of tone, when he said, 

“What have you there, Sam?” 

“Called at the postoffice just now, and found this 
here letter, as has laid there for two days,” replied 
Mr. Weller. “It’s sealed vith a vafer, and directed 
in round hand.” 

“I don’t know this hand,” said Mr. Pickwick, 
opening the letter. “Mercy on us! what’s this? It 
must be a jest; it — it — can’t be true.” 

“What’s the matter?” was the general inquiry. 

“Nobody dead, is there?” said Wardle, alarmed 
at the horror in Mr. Pickwick’s countenance. 

Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the 
letter across the table, and desiring Mr. Tupman to 
read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of 
vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold. 

Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the let- 
ter, of which the following is a copy: 

Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, 
August 28th, 1830. 

Bardell against Pickwick. 

Sir, 

Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha 
Bardell to commence an action against you, for 
a breach of promise of marriage, for which the 
plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, 


PICKWICK 


43 

we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued 
against you in this suit, in the Court of Common 
Pleas : and request to know, by return of post, the 
name of your attorney in London, who will accept 
service thereof. 

We are, Sir, 

Your obedient servants, 
Dodson and Fogg. 

Mr. Samuel Pickwick. 

There was something so impressive in the mute 
astonishment with which each man regarded his 
neighbor, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick, 
that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at 
length broken by Mr. Tupman. 

“Dodson and Fogg,” he repeated mechanically. 

“Bardell and Pickwick,” said Mr. Snodgrass, 
musing. 

“Peace of mind and happiness of confiding fe- 
males,” murmured Mr. Winkle with an air of ab- 
straction. 

“It’s a conspiracy,” said Mr. Pickwick, at length 
recovering the power of speech ; “a base con- 
spiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dod- 
son and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it; — 
she hasn’t the heart to do it; — she hasn’t the case 
to do it. Ridiculous — ridiculous.” 

“Of her heart,” said Wardle, with a smile, “you 
should certainly be the best judge. I don’t wish 
to discourage you, but I should certainly say that, 
of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges 
than any of us can be.” 


44 


DICKENS 


“It’s a vile attempt to extort money,” said Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“I hope it is,” said Wardle, with a short dry 
cough. 

“Who ever heard me address her in any way but 
that in which a lodger would address his landlady?” 
continued Mr. Pickwick, with great vehemence. 
“Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends 
here ” 

“Except on one occasion,” said Mr. Tupman. 

Mr. Pickwick changed color. 

“Ah,” said Wardle. “Well, that’s important. 
There was nothing suspicious then, I suppose?” 

Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. “Why,” 
he said, “there was nothing suspicious; but — I don’t 
know how it happened, mind — she certainly was re- 
clining in his arms.” 

“Gracious powers!” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as 
the recollection of the scene in question struck 
forcibly upon him; “what a dreadful instance of the 
force of circumstances! So she was — so she was.” 

“And our friend was soothing her anguish,” said 
Mr. Winkle, rather maliciously. 

“So I was,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I won’t deny 
it. So I was.” 

“Hallo !” said Wardle ; “for a case in which there’s 
nothing suspicious, this looks rather queer — eh, Pick- 
wick? Ah, sly dog — sly dog!” and he laughed till 
the glasses on the sideboard rang again. 

“What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!” 
exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, resting his chin upon his 
hands. “Winkle — Tupman — I beg your pardon for 
the observations I made just now. We are all the 


PICKWICK 


45 


victims of circumstances, and I the greatest.” With 
this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his 
hands, and ruminated; while Wardle measured out 
a regular circle of nods and winks, addressed to the 
other members of the company. 

“I’ll have it explained, though,” said Mr. Pick- 
wick, raising his head, and hammering the table. 
“I’ll see this Dodson and Fogg! I’ll go to London 
to-morrow.” 

“Not tomorrow,” said Wardle; “you’re too lame.” 

“Well, then, next day.” 

“Next day is the first of September, and you’re 
pledged to ride out with us as far as Sir Geoffrey 
Manning’s grounds, at all events, and to meet us at 
lunch, if you don’t take the field.” 

“Well, then, the day after,” said Mr. Pickwick; 
“Thursday — Sam !” 

“Sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“Take two places outside to London, on Thurs- 
day morning, for yourself and me.” 

“Wery well, sir.” 

Mr. /Weller left the room, and departed slowly on 
his errand, with his hands in his pockets, and his 
eyes fixed on the ground. 

“Rum feller, the hemperor,” said Mr. Weller, as 
he walked slowly up the street. “Think o’ his 
making up to that ere Mrs. Bardell — vith a little 
boy, too! Always the way vith these here old ’uns, 
hows’ever, as is such steady goers to look at. I 
didn’t think he’d ha’ done it, though — I didn’t think 
he’d ha’ done it!” And moralizing in this strain, 
Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps toward the book- 
ing office. 


46 


DICKENS 


CHAPTER III. 

SHOWING HOW DOBSON AND FOGG WERE 
MEN OF BUSINESS , AND THEIR CLERKS 
MEN OF PLEASURE; AND HOW AN 
AFFECTING INTERVIEW TOOK PLACE 
BETWEEN MR. WELLER AND HIS 
LONG-LOST PARENT. 

In the ground-floor front of a dingy house, at the 
very furthest end of Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, sat 
the four clerks of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, two 
of his Majesty’s attorneys of the Courts of King’s 
Bench and Common Pleas at Westminster, and so- 
licitors of the High Court of Chancery; the afore- 
said clerks catching as favourable glimpses of heav- 
en’s light and heaven’s sun in the course of their 
daily labors as a man might hope to do were he 
placed at the bottom of a reasonably deep well; 
and without the opportunity of perceiving the stars 
in the daytime, which the latter secluded situation 
affords. 

The clerks’-oflke of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg was 
a dark, mouldy, earthy-smelling room, with a high 
wainscoted partition to screen the clerks from the 
vulgar gaze; a couple of old wooden chairs; a very 
loud-ticking clock; an almanac, an umbrella-stand, 
a row of hat-pegs and a few shelves, on which were 
deposited several ticketed bundles of dirty papers, 


PICKWICK 


47 


some old deal boxes with paper labels, and sundry 
decayed stone ink bottles of various shapes and sizes. 
There was a glass door leading into the passage 
which formed the entrance to the court, and on the 
outer side of this glass door Mr. Pickwick, closely 
followed by Sam Weller, presented himself on the 
Friday morning succeeding the occurrence of which 
a faithful narration is given in the last chapter. 

“Come in, can’t you?” cried a voice from behind 
the partition in reply to Mr. Pickwick’s gentle tap 
at the door. And Mr. Pickwick and Sam entered 
accordingly. 

“Mr. Dodson or Mr. Fogg at home, sir?” inquired 
Mr. Pickwick, gently advancing, hat in hand, toward 
the partition. 

“Mr. Dodson ain’t at home and Mr. Fogg’s par- 
ticularly engaged,” replied the voice ; and at the 
same time the head to which the voice belonged, 
with a pen behind its ear, looked over the partition 
and at Mr. Pickwick. 

It was a ragged head, the sandy hair of which, 
scrupulously parted on one side and flattened down 
with pomatum, was twisted into little semi-circular 
tails round a flat face ornamented with a pair of 
small eyes, and garnished with a very dirty shirt 
collar and a rusty black stock. 

“Mr. Dodson ain’t at home and Mr. Fogg’s par- 
ticularly engaged,” said the man to whom the head 
belonged. 

“When will Mr. Dodson be back, sir?” inquired 
Mr. Pickwick. 

“Can’t say.” 


48 


DICKENS 


“Will it be long before Mr. Fogg is disengaged, 
sir?” 

“Don’t know.” 

Here the man proceeded to mend his pen with 
great deliberation, while another clerk, who was 
mixing a Seidlitz powder, under cover of the lid of 
his desk, laughed approvingly. 

“I think I’ll wait,” said Mr. Pickwick. There was 
no reply; so Mr. Pickwick sat down unbidden, and 
listened to the loud ticking of the clock and the 
murmured conversation of the clerks. 

“That was a game, wasn’t it?” said one of the 
gentlemen, in a brown coat and brass buttons, inky 
drabs and bluchers, at the conclusion of some in- 
audible relation of his previous evening’s adven- 
tures. 

“Devilish good — devilish good,” said the Seidlitz- 
powder man. 

“Tom Cummins was in the chair,” said the man 
with the brown coat. “It was half-past four when I 
got to Somers Town, and then I was so uncommon 
lushy that I couldn’t find the place where the latch- 
key went in, and was obliged to knock up the old 
’ooman. I say, I wonder what old Fogg ’ud say 
if he knew it. I should get the sack, I s’pose — eh?” 

At this humorous notion all the clerks laughed in 
concert. 

“There was such a game with Fogg here, this 
mornin’,” said the man in the brown coat, “while 
Jack was upstairs sorting the papers and you two 
were gone to the stamp office. Fogg was down here, 
opening the letters, when that chap as we issued the 


PICKWICK 49 

writ against at Camberwell, you know, came in — 
what’s his name again?” 

“Ramsey,” said the clerk who had spoken to Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“Ah, Ramsey — a precious seedy-looking customer. 
Well, sir,’ says old Fogg, looking at him very 
fierce — you know his way — ‘well, sir, have you come 
to settle?’ ‘Yes, I have, sir,’ said Ramsey, putting 
his hand in his pocket and bringing out the money, 
‘the debt’s two pound ten, and the costs three pound 
five, and here it is, sir’; and he sighed like two 
bricks as he lugged the money, done up in a bit of 
blotting paper. Old Fogg looked first at the money 
and then at him and then he coughed in his rum 
way, so that I knew something was coming. ‘You 
don’t know there’s a declaration filed, which increases 
the costs materially, I suppose?’ said Fogg. ‘You 
don’t say that, sir,’ said Ramsey, starting back; ‘the 
time was only out last night, sir.’ ‘I do say it, 
though,’ said Fogg, ‘my clerk’s just gone to file it. 
Hasn’t Mr. Jackson gone to file that declaration in 
Bullman and Ramsey, Mr. Wicks?’ Of course I 
said yes, and then Fogg coughed again, and looked 
at Ramsey. ‘My God !’ said Ramsey ; ‘and here have 
I nearly driven myself mad scraping this money to- 
gether, and all to no purpose.’ ‘None at all,’ said 
Fogg coolly; ‘so you had better go back and scrape 
some more together and bring it here in time.’ ‘I 
can’t get it, by God,’ said Ramsey, striking the desk 
with his fist. ‘Don’t bully me, sir,’ said Fogg, get- 
ting into a passion on purpose. ‘I am not bullying 
you, sir, said Ramsey. ‘You are,’ said Fogg; ‘get 


50 


DICKENS 


out, sir; get out of this office, sir, and come back, 
sir, when you know how to behave yourself.’ Well, 
Ramsey tried to speak, but Fogg wouldn’t let him, 
so he put the money in his pocket and sneaked out. 
The door was scarcely shut when old Fogg turned 
round to me with a sweet smile on his face and 
drew the declaration out of his coat pocket. ‘Here, 
Wicks/ says Fogg, ‘take a cab, and go down to the 
Temple as quick as you can and file that. The costs 
are quite safe, for he’s a steady man with a large 
family, at a salary of five-and-twenty shillings a 
week, and if he gives us a warrant of attorney, as 
he must in the end, I know his employers will see 
it paid ; so we may as well get all we can out of 
him, Mr. Wicks; it’s a Christian act to do it, Mr. 
Wicks, for with his large family and small income 
he’ll be all the better for a good lesson against get- 
ting into debt — won’t he, Mr. Wicks, won’t he?’ — 
and he smiled so good-naturedly as he went away 
that it was delightful to see him. He is a capital 
man of business,” said Wicks, in a tone of the 
deepest admiration, “capital, isn’t he?” 

The other three cordially subscribed to this opin- 
ion, and the anecdote afforded the most unlimited 
satisfaction. 

“Nice men these here, sir,” whispered Mr. Weller 
to his master; “wery nice notion of fun they has, 
sir.” 

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent, and coughed to at- 
tract the attention of the young gentlemen behind 
the partition, who, having now relaxed their minds 


PICKWICK 51 

by a little conversation among themselves, con- 
descended to take some notice of the stranger. 

“I wonder whether Fogg’s disengaged now?” said 
Jackson. 

‘Til see,” said Wicks,* dismounting leisurely from 
his stool. “What name shall I tell Mr. Fogg?” 

“Pickwick,” replied the illustrious subject of these 
memoirs. 

Mr. Jackson departed upstairs on his errand, and 
immediately returned with a message that Mr. Fogg 
would see Mr. Pickwick in five minutes; and having 
delivered it, returned again to his desk. 

“What did he say his name was?” whispered 
Wicks. 

“Pickwick,” replied Jackson ; “it’s the defendant 
in Bardell and Pickwick.” 

A sudden scraping of feet, mingled with the 
sound of suppressed laughter, was heard from be- 
hind the partition. 

“They’re a twiggin’ of you, sir,” whispered Mr. 
Weller. 

“Twiggin of me, Sam!” replied Mr. Pickwick; 
“what do you mean by twigging me?” 

Mr. Weller replied by pointing with his thumb 
over his shoulder, and Mr. Pickwick, on looking up, 
became sensible of the pleasing fact that all the four 
clerks, with countenances expressive of the utmost 
amusement, and with their heads thrust over the 
wooden screen, were minutely inspecting the figure 
and general appearance of the supposed trifler with 
female hearts and disturber of female happiness. On 
his looking up, the row of heads suddenly disap- 


52 


DICKENS 


peared, and the sounds of pens traveling at a furious 
rate over paper immediately succeeded. 

A sudden ring at the bell which hung in the office 
summoned Mr. Jackson to the apartment of Fogg, 
from whence he came back to say that he (Fogg) 
was ready to see Mr. Pickwick if he would step 
upstairs. 

Upstairs Mr. Pickwick did step accordingly, leav- 
ing Sam Weller below. The room door of the one- 
pair back bore inscribed in legible characters the 
imposing words “Mr. Fogg,” and, having tapped 
thereat, and been desired to come in, Jackson ushered 
Mr. Pickwick into the presence. 

“Is Mr. Dodson in?” inquired Mr. Fogg. 

“Just come in, sir,” replied Jackson. 

“Ask him tp step here.” 

“Yes, sir.” Exit Jackson. 

“Take a seat, sir,” said Fogg; “there is the paper, 
sir; my partner will be here directly, and we can 
converse about this matter, sir.” 

Mr. Pickwick took a seat and the paper, but in- 
stead of reading the latter peeped over the top of it 
and took a survey of the man of business, who was 
an elderly pimply-faced, vegetable-diet sort of man, 
in a black coat, dark mixture trousers and small 
black gaiters ; a kind of being who seemed to be an 
essential part of the desk at which he was writing, 
and to have as much thought or sentiment. 

After a few minutes’ silence, Mr. Dodson, a plump, 
portly, stern-looking man, with a loud voice, ap- 
peared; and the conversation commenced. 

“This is Mr. Pickwick,” said Fogg. 


PICKWICK 53 

“Ah! You are the defendant, sir, in Bardell and 
Pickwick?” said Dodson. 

“I am, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“Well, sir,” said Dodson, “and what do you pro- 
pose?” 

“Ah!” said Fogg, thrusting his hands into his 
trousers’ pockets, and throwing himself back in his 
chair, “what do you propose, Mr. Pickwick?” 

“Hush, Fogg,” said Dodson, “let me hear what Mr. 
Pickwick has to say.” 

“I came, gentlemen,” replied Mr. Pickwick — gazing 
placidly on the two partners — “I came here, gentle- 
men, to express the surprise with which I received 
your letter of the other day, and to inquire what 
grounds of action you can have against me.” 

“Grounds of — ” Fogg had ejaculated thus much 
when he was stopped by Dodson. 

“Mr. Fogg,” said Dodson, “I am going to speak.” 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodson,” said Fogg. 

“For the grounds of action, sir,” continued Dod- 
son, with moral elevation in his air, “you will con- 
sult yoiir own conscience and your own feelings. 
We, sir, we are guided entirely by the statement of 
our client. That statement, sir, may be true, or it 
may be false; it may be credible, or it may be in- 
credible; but if it be true, and if it be credible, I 
do not hesitate to say, sir, that our grounds of 
action, sir, are strong and not to be shaken. You 
may be an unfortunate man, sir, or you may be a de- 
signing one; but if I were called upon as a juryman 
upon my oath, sir, to express an opinion of your 
conduct, sir, I do not hesitate to assert that I should 


64 


DICKENS 


have but one opinion about it.” Here Dodson drew 
himself up with an air of offended virtue, and looked 
at Fogg, who thrust his hands further in his pock- 
ets, and nodding his head sagely, said in a tone of 
the fullest concurrence, “Most certainly.” 

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable 
pain depicted in his countenance, “you will permit 
me to assure you that I am a most unfortunate man 
so far as this case is concerned.” 

“I hope you are, sir,” replied Dodson; “I trust 
you may be, sir. If you are really innocent of what 
is laid to your charge, you are more unfortunate 
than I had believed any man could possibly be. 
What do you say, Mr. Fogg?” 

“I say precisely what you say,” replied Fogg, with 
a smile of incredulity. 

“The writ, sir, which commences the action,” con- 
tinued Dodson, “was issued regularly. Mr. Fogg, 
where is the praecipe book?” 

“Here it is,” said Fogg, handing over a square 
book, with a parchment cover. 

“Here is the entry,” resumed Dodson. “ ‘Middle- 
sex, Capias Martha Bardell, widow, v. Samuel Pick- 
wick. Damages, £ 1500 . Dodson and Fogg for the 
plaintiff, Aug. 28 , 1830 .’ All regular, sir; perfectly.” 
Dodson coughed and looked at Fogg, who said “Per- 
fectly” also. And then they both looked at Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“I am to understand, then,” said Mr. Pickwick, 
“that it really is your intention to proceed with this 
action?” 

“Understand, sir? — that you certainly may,” re- 


PICKWICK 55 

plied Dodson, with something as near a smile as his 
importance would allow. 

“And that the damages are actually laid at fifteen 
hundred pounds?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“To which understanding you may add my as- 
surance that if we could have prevailed upon our 
client they would have been laid at treble the 
amount, sir,” replied Dodson. 

“I believe Mrs. Bardell specially said, however,” 
observed Fogg, glancing at Dodson, “that she would 
not compromise for a farthing less.” 

“Unquestionably,” replied Dodson, sternly. For 
the action was only just begun ; and it wouldn’t have 
done to let Mr. Pickwick compromise it then, even 
if he had been so disposed. 

“As you offer no terms, sir,” said Dodson, dis- 
playing a slip of parchment in his right hand, and 
affectionately pressing a paper copy of it on Mr. 
Pickwick with his left, “I had better serve you with 
a copy of this writ, sir. Here is the original, sir.” 

“Very well, gentlemen, very well,” said Mr. Pick- 
wick, rising in person and wrath at the same time; 
“you shall hear from my solicitor, gentlemen.” 

“We shall be very happy to do so,” said Fogg, rub- 
bing his hands. 

“Very,” said Dodson, opening the door. 

“And before I go, gentlemen,” said the excited Mr. 
Pickwick, turning around on the landing, “permit me 
to say that of all the disgraceful and rascally pro- 
ceedings — ” 

“Stay, sir, stay,” interposed Dodson, with great 
politeness. “Mr. Jackson ! Mr. Wicks !” 


56 


DICKENS 


“Sir,” said the two clerks, appearing at the bottom 
of the stairs. 

“I merely want you to hear what this gentleman 
says,” replied Dodson. “Pray go on, sir — disgrace- 
ful and rascally proceedings, I think you said ?” 

“I did,” said Mr. Pickwick, thoroughly roused. 
“I said, sir, that of all the disgraceful and rascally 
proceedings that ever were attempted, this is the 
most so. I repeat it, sir ” 

“You hear that, Mr. Wicks?” said Dodson. 

“You won’t forget these expressions, Mr. Jack- 
son?” said Fogg. 

“Perhaps you would like to call us swindlers, sir,” 
said Dodson. “Pray do, sir, if you feel disposed — 
now pray do, sir.” 

“I do,” said Pickwick. “You are swindlers.” 

“Very good,” said Dodson. “You can hear down 
there, I hope, Mr. Wicks?” 

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Wicks. 

“You had better come up a step or two higher if 
you can’t,” added Mr. Fogg. “Go on, sir, do go on. 
You had better call us thieves, sir; or perhaps you 
would like to assault one of us. Pray do it, sir, 
if you would; we will not make the smallest re- 
sistance. Pray do it, sir.” 

As Fogg put himself very temptingly within the 
reach of Mr. Pickwick’s clenched fist, there is little 
doubt that that gentleman would have complied with 
his earnest entreaty but for the interposition of Sam, 
who, hearing the dispute, emerged from the office, 
mounted the stairs, and seized his master by the arm. 

“You just come avay,” said Mr. Weller. “Battle- 


PICKWICK 


57 


dore and shuttlecock’s a wery good game, vhen you 
ain’t the shuttlecock and two lawyers the battledores, 
in wich case it gets too excitin’ to be pleasant. Come 
avay, sir. If you want to ease your mind by blowing 
up somebody, come out into the court and blow up 
me; but it’s rayther too expensive work to be car- 
ried on here.” 

And without the slightest ceremony Mr. Weller 
hauled his master down the stairs, and down the 
court, and having safely deposited him in Cornhill, 
fell behind, prepared to follow whithersoever he 
should lead. 

Mr. Pickwick walked on abstractedly, crossed op- 
posite the Mansion House, and bent his steps up 
Cheapside. Sam began to wonder where they were 
going, when his master turned round and said: 

“Sam, I will go immediately to Mr. Perker’s.” 

“That’s just exactly the wery place vere you ought 
to have gone last night, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“I think it is, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“I know it is,” said Mr. Weller. 

“Well, well, Sam,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “we will 
go there at once ; but first, as I have been rather 
ruffled, I should like a glass of brandy and water 
warm, Sam. Where can I have it, Sam?” 

Mr. Weller’s knowledge of London was extensive 
and peculiar. He replied without the slightest con- 
sideration : 

“Second court on the right-hand side — last house 
but vun on the same side of the vay — take the box 
as stands in the first fireplace, ’cos there ain’t no 


58 


DICKENS 


leg in the middle o’ the table, wich all the others 
has, and it’s wery inconwenient.” 

Mr. Pickwick observed his valet’s directions im- 
plicitly, and, bidding Sam follow him, entered the 
tavern he had pointed out, where the hot brandy 
and water was speedily placed before him; while 
Mr. Weller, seated at a respectful distance, though 
at the same table with his master, was accommodated 
with a pint of porter. 

The room was one of a very homely description, 
and was apparently under the especial patronage of 
stage coachmen; for several gentlemen, who had all 
the appearance of belonging to that learned pro- 
fession, were drinking and smoking in the different 
boxes. Among the number was one stout, red-faced, 
elderly man in particular, seated in an opposite box, 
who attracted Mr. Pickwick’s attention. The stout 
man was smoking with great vehemence, but between 
every half-dozen puffs he took his pipe from his 
mouth and looked first at Mr. Weller and then at 
Mr. Pickwick. Then he would bury in a quart-pot 
as much of his countenance as the dimensions of the 
quart-pot admitted of its receiving, and take another 
look at Sam and Mr. Pickwick. Then he would take 
another half-dozen puffs with an air of profound 
meditation, and look at them again. At last the 
stout man, putting up his legs on the seat, and lean- 
ing his back against the wall, began to puff at his 
pipe without leaving off at all, and to stare through 
the smoke at the new comers, as if he had made 
up his mind to see the most he could of them. 

At first the evolutions of the stout man had es- 


PICKWICK 


59 


caped Mr. Weller’s observations, but by degrees, as 
he saw Mr. Pickwick’s eyes every now and then 
turning toward him, he began to gaze in the same 
direction, at the same time shading his eyes with 
his hand, as if he partially recognized the object 
before him, and wished to make quite sure of its 
identity. His doubts were speedily dispelled, how- 
ever; for the stout man having blown a thick cloud 
from his pipe, a hoarse voice, like some strange ef- 
fort of ventriloquism, emerged from beneath the 
capacious shawls which muffled his throat and chest, 
and slowly uttered these sounds — “Wy, Sammy !” 

“Who’s that, Sam?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“Why, I wouldn’t ha’ believed it, sir,” replied Mr. 
Weller, with astonished eyes. “It’s the old ’un.” 

“Old one,” said Mr. Pickwick. “What old one?” 

“My father, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “How are 
you, my ancient?” With which beautiful ebullition 
of filial affection Mr. Weller made room on the seat 
beside him for the stout man, who advanced, pipe in 
mouth and pot in hand, to greet him. 

“Wy, Sammy,” said the father, “I han’t seen you 
for two year and better.” 

“No more you have, old codger,” replied the son. 
“How’s mother-in-law ?” 

“Why, I tell you what, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, 
senior, with much solemnity in his manner, “there 
never was a nicer woman as a widder than that ’ere 
second wentur o’ mine — a sweet creetur she was, 
Sammy; all I can say on her now is, that as she 
was such an uncommon pleasant widder, it’s a great 


60 DICKENS 

pity she ever changed her con-dition. She don’t act 
as a vife, Sammy.” 

“Don’t she, though?” inquired Mr. Weller, junior. 

The elder Mr. Weller shook his head, as he re- 
plied with a sigh, “I’ve done it once too often, 
Sammy; I’ve done it once too often. Take example 
by your father, my boy, and be wery careful o’ 
widders all your life, specially if they’ve kept a 
public house, Sammy.” Having delivered this pa- 
rental advice with great pathos, Mr. Weller, senior, 
refilled his pipe from a tin box he carried in his 
pocket; and lighting his fresh pipe from the ashes 
of the old one, commenced smoking at a great rate. 

“Beg your pardon, sir,” he said, renewing the sub- 
ject, and addressing Mr. Pickwick, after a consid- 
erable pause, “nothin’ personal, I hope, sir; I hope 
you han’t got a widder, sir.” 

“Not I,” replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing; and while 
Mr. Pickwick laughed, Sam Weller informed his 
parent in a whisper of the relation in which he 
stood toward that gentleman. 

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Weller, senior, 
taking off his hat, “I hope you’ve no fault to find 
with Sammy, sir.” 

“None whatever,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Wery glad to hear it, sir,” replied the old man; 
I took a good deal o’ pains with his eddication, sir; 
let him run in the streets when he was wery young, 
and shift for his-self. It’s the only way to make a 
boy sharp, sir.” 

“Rather a dangerous process, I should imagine,” 
said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile. 


PICKWICK 61 

“And not a wery sure one, neither/’ added Mr. 
Weller; “I got reg’larly done the other day.” 

“No!” said the father. 

“I did,” said the son; and he proceeded to relate 
in as few words as possible, how he had fallen a 
ready dupe to the stratagems of Job Trotter. 

CHAPTER IV. 

WHICH CONTAINS A BRIEF ACCOUNT OF 
THE PROGRESS OF THE ACTION OF 
BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK. 

(Some months passed. After various adventures 
in the country, which form no part of the present 
narrative, Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Winkle, Mr. Tupman 
and Mr. Snodgrass returned to London to see what 
Messrs. Dodson and Fogg had been doing, and Mr. 
Pickwick and Sam took up their present abode in 
very good, old-fashioned, and comfortable quarters: 
to wit, the George and Vulture Tavern and Hotel, 
George Yard, Lombard street.) 

Mr. Pickwick had dined, finished his second pint 
of particular port, pulled his silk handkerchief over 
his head, put his feet on the fender, and thrown him- 
self back in an easy chair, when the entrance of Mr. 
Weller with his carpet bag, aroused him from his 
tranquil meditations. 

“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Sir,” said Mr. Weller. 

“I have just been thinking, Sam,” said Mr. Pick- 
wick, “that having left a good many things at Mrs. 


62 


DICKENS 


Bardell’s, in Goswell street, I ought to arrange for 
taking them away before I leave town again.” 

“Wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“I could send them to Mr. Tupman’s, for the pres- 
ent, Sam,” continued Mr. Pickwick, “but, before we 
take them away, it is necessary that they should be 
looked up, and put together. I wish you would step 
up to Goswell street, Sam, and arrange about it.” 

“At once, sir?” inquired Mr. Weller. 

“At once,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “And stay, 
Sam,” added Mr. Pickwick, pulling out his purse, 
“there is some rent to pay. The quarter is not due 
till Christmas, but you may pay it, and have done 
with it. A month’s notice terminates my tenancy. 
Here it is, written out. Give it, and tell Mrs. Bar- 
dell she may put a bill up as soon as she likes.” 

“Wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller; “anythin’ 
more, sir?” 

“Nothing more, Sam.” 

Mr. Weller stepped slowly to the door, as if he 
expected something more; slowly opened it, slowly 
stepped out, and had slowly closed it within a couple 
of inches, when Mr. Pickwick called out : 

“Sam.” 

“Sir,” said Mr. Weller, stepping quickly back, and 
closing the door behind him. 

“I have no objection, Sam, to your endeavoring to 
ascertain how Mrs. Bardell herself seems disposed 
toward me, and whether it is really probable that this 
vile and groundless action is to be carried to ex- 
tremity. I say I do not object to your doing this, if 
you wish it, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 


PICKWICK 


63 


Sam gave a short nod of intelligence, and left the 
room. Mr. Pickwick drew the silk handkerchief 
once more over his head, and composed himself for a 
nap. Mr. Weller promptly walked forth, to execute 
his commission. 

It was nearly nine o’clock when he reached Gos- 
well street. A couple of candles were burning in 
the little front parlor, and a couple of caps were 
reflected on the window blind. Mrs. Bardell had 
got company. 

Mr. Weller knocked at the door, and after a pretty 
long interval — occupied by the party without in 
whistling a tune, and a party within, in persuading 
a refractory flat candle to allow itself to be lighted — 
a pair of small boots pattered over the floor cloth, 
and Master Bardell presented himself. 

“Well, young townskip,” said Sam, “how’s 
mother ?” 

“She’s pretty well,” replied Master Bardell, “so 
am I.” 

“Well, that’s a mercy,” said Sam; “tell her I 
want to speak to her, will you, my infant fernom- 
enon ?” 

Master Bardell, thus adjured, placed the refractory 
flat candle on the bottom stair, and vanished into the 
front parlor with his message. 

The two caps, reflected on the window blind, were 
the respective head-dresses of a couple of Mrs. Bar- 
dell’s most particular acquaintance, who had just 
stepped in to have a quiet cup of tea, and a little 
warm supper of a couple of sets of pettitoes and 
some toasted cheese. The cheese was simmering 


64 


DICKENS 


and browning away, most delightfully, in a little 
Dutch oven before the fire; and the pettitoes were 
getting on deliciously in a little tin saucepan on the 
hob; and Mrs. Bardell and her two friends were 
getting on very well also, in a little quiet conversa- 
tion about and concerning all their particular friends 
and acquaintance; when Master Bardell came back 
from answering the door, and delivered the message 
entrusted to him by Mr. Samuel Weller. 

“Mr. Pickwick’s servant!” said Mrs. Bardell turn- 
ing pale. 

“Bless my soul !” said Mrs. Cluppins. 

“Well; I raly would not ha’ believed it, unless I 
had ha’ happened to ha’ been here!” said Mrs. San- 
ders. 

Mrs. Cluppins was a little, brisk, busy-looking 
woman; and Mrs. Sanders was a big, fat, heavy- 
faced personage ; and the two were the company. 

Mrs. Bardell felt it proper to be agitated; and as 
none of the three exactly knew whether, under ex- 
isting circumstances, any communication, otherwise 
than through Dodson and Fogg, ought to be held 
with Mr. Pickwick’s servant, they were all rather 
taken by surprise. In this state of indecision, ob- 
viously the first thing to be done was to thump the 
boy for finding Mr. Weller at the door. So his 
mother thumped him, and he cried melodiously. 

“Hold your noise — do — you naughty creetur !” said 
Mrs. Bardell. 

“Yes; don’t worrit your poor mother,” said Mrs. 
Sanders. 

“She’s quite enough to worrit her, as it is, with- 


PTCKWICK 65 

out you, Tommy,” said Mrs. Cluppins, with sym- 
pathizing resignation. 

“Ah ! worse luck, poor lamb !” said Mrs. Sanders. 

At all which moral reflections, Master Bardell 
howled the louder. 

“Now, what shall I do?” said Mrs. Bardell to Mrs. 
Cluppins. 

“I think you ought to see him,” replied Mrs. Clup- 
pins. “But on no account without a witness.” 

“I think two witnesses would be more lawful,” 
said Mrs. Sanders, who, like the other friend, was 
bursting with curiosity. 

“Perhaps he’d better come in here,” said Mrs. 
Bardell. 

“To be sure,” replied Mrs. Cluppins, eagerly catch- 
ing at the idea: “Walk in, young man; and shut the 
street door first, please.” 

Mr. Weller immediately took the hint; and pre- 
senting himself in the parlor, explained his business 
to Mrs. Bardell thus: 

“Wery sorry to ? casion any personal inconwenience, 
ma’am, as the housebreaker said to the old lady 
when he put her on the fire; but as me and my 
governor’s only jest come to town, and is jest going 
away agin, it can’t be helped, you see.” 

“Of course, the young man can’t help the faults of 
his master,” said Mrs. Cluppins, much struck by Mr. 
Weller’s appearance and conversation. 

“Certainly not,” chimed in Mrs. Sanders, who, 
from certain wistful glances at the little tin sauce- 
pan, seemed to be engaged in a mental calculation of 


66 


DICKENS 


the probable extent of the pettitoes, in the event of 
Sam’s being asked to stop to supper. 

“So all I’ve come about, is just this here,” said 
Sam, disregarding the interruption; “First, to give 
my governor’s notice — there it is. Secondly, to pay 
the rent — here it is. Thirdly, to say as all his things 
is to be put together, and give to anybody as we 
sends for ’em. Fourthly, that you may let the 
place as soon as you like — and that's all.” 

“Whatever has happened,” said Mrs. Bardell, “I 
always have said, and always will say, that in every 
respect but one Mr. Pickwick has always behaved 
himself like a perfect gentleman. His money always 
was as good as the bank; always.” 

As Mrs. Bardell said this she applied her handker- 
chief to her eyes, and went out of the room to get 
the receipt. 

Sam well knew that he had only to remain quiet, 
and the women were sure to talk; so he looked 
alternately at the tin saucepan, the toasted cheese, 
the wall, and the ceiling, in profound silence. 

“Poor dear!” said Mrs. Cluppins. 

“Ah, poor thing!” replied Mrs. Sanders. 

Sam said nothing. He saw they were coming to 
the subject. 

“I raly cannot contain myself,” said Mrs. Clup- 
pins, “when I think of such perjury. I don’t wish 
to say anything to make you uncomfortable, ycfung 
man, but your master’s an old brute, and I wish I 
had him here to tell him so.” 

“I wish you had,” said Sam. 

“To see how dreadful she takes on, going moping 


PICKWICK 


67 


about, and taking no pleasure in nothing, except 
when her friends comes in, out of charity, to sit 
with her, and make her comfortable,” resumed Mrs. 
Cluppins, glancing at the tin saucepan and the Dutch 
oven, “it’s shocking!” 

“Barbarous !” said Mrs. Sanders. 

“And your master, young man ! A gentleman with 
money, as could never feel the expense of a wife, no 
more than nothing,” continued Mrs. Cluppins, with 
great volubility; “why, there ain’t the faintest shade 
of an excuse for his behaviour ! Why don’t he marry 
her?” 

“Ah,” said Sam, “to be sure ; that’s the question.” 

“Question, indeed,” retorted Mrs. Cluppins; “she’d 
question him, if she’d my spirit. Hows’ever, there is 
law for us women, mis’rable creeturs as they’d make 
us, if they could ; and that your master will find out, 
young man, to his cost, afore he’s six months 
older.” 

At this consolatory reflection Mrs. Cluppins bridled 
up and smiled at Mrs. Sanders, who smiled back 
again. 

“The action’s goin on, and no mistake,” thought 
Sam, as Mrs. Bardell re-entered with the receipt. 

“Here’s the receipt, Mr. Weller,” said Mrs. Bar- 
dell, “and here’s the change, and I hope you’ll take 
a little drop of something to keep the cold out, if 
it’s only for old acquaintance sake, Mr. Weller.” 

Sam saw the advtange he should gain, and at once 
acquiesced ; whereupon Mrs. Bardell produced, from 
a small closet, a black bottle and a wine glass; and 
so great was her abstraction, in her deep mental 


68 


DICKENS 


affliction, that, after filling Mr. Weller’s glass, she 
brought out three more wine glasses, and filled them, 
too. 

“Lauk, Mrs. Bardell,” said Mrs. Cluppins, “see 
what you’ve been and done !” 

“Well, that is a good one!” ejaculated Mrs. San- 
ders. 

“Ah, my poor head!” said Mrs. Bardell, with a 
faint smile. 

Sam understood all this, of course, so he said at 
once, that he could never drink before supper, un- 
less a lady drank with him. A great deal of laugh- 
ing ensued, and Mrs. Sanders volunteered to humour 
him, so she took a slight sip out of her glass. Then 
Sam said it must go all round, so they all took a 
slight sip. Then little Mrs. Cluppins proposed as a 
toast, “Success to Bardell again Pickwick” ; and then 
the ladies emptied their glasses in honor of the sen- 
timent, and got very talkative directly. 

“I suppose you’ve heard what’s going forward, 
Mr. Weller?” said Mrs. Bardell. 

“I’ve heard somethin’ on it,” replied Sam. 

“It’s a terrible thing to be dragged before the 
public, in that way, Mr. Weller,” said Mrs. Bardell; 
“but I see now, that it’s the only thing I ought 
to do, and my lawyers, Mr. Dodson and Fogg, tell 
me, that with the evidence as we shall call, we must 
succeed. I don’t know what I should do, Mr. Wel- 
ler, if I didn’t.” 

The mere idea of Mrs. Bardell’s failing in her 
action affected Mrs. Sanders so deeply that she was 
under the necessity of refilling and re-emptying her 


PICKWICK 


69 


glass immediately, feeling, as she said afterward, that 
if she hadn’t had the presence of mind to have done 
so she must have dropped. 

“Ven is it expected to come on?” inquired Sam. 

“Either in February or March,” replied Mrs. 
Bardell. 

“What a number of witnesses there’ll be, won’t 
there?” said Mrs. Cluppins. 

“Ah, won’t there !” replied Mrs. Sanders. 

“And won’t Mr. Dodson and Fogg be wild if the 
plaintiff shouldn’t get it?” added Mrs. Cluppins, 
“when they do it all on speculation!” 

“Ah, won’t they!” said Mrs. Sanders. 

“But the plaintiff must get it,” resumed Mrs. 
Cluppins. 

“I hope so,” said Mrs. Bardell. 

“Oh, there can’t be any doubt about it,” rejoined 
Mrs. Sanders. 

“Veil,” said Sam, rising and setting down his 
glass, “all I can say is, that I wish you may get it.” 

“Thank’ee, Mr. Weller,” said Mrs. Bardell, fer- 
vently. 

“And of them Dodson and Fogg, as does these 
sort o’ things on spec,” continued Mr. Weller, “as 
well as for the other kind and gen’rous people o’ 
the same purfession, as sets people by the ears, free 
gratis for nothin’, and sets their clerks to work to 
find out little disputes among their neighbors and 
acquaintance as vants settlin’ by means o' law-suits 
— all I can say o’ them is, that I vish they had the 
revard I’d give ’em.” 

“Ah, I wish they had the reward that eve 


70 


DICKENS 


kind and generous heart would be inclined to be- 
stow upon them!” said the gratified Mrs. Bardell. 

“Amen to that,” replied Sam, “and a fat and 
happy livin’ they’d get out of it ! Wish you good 
night, ladies.” 

To the great relief of Mrs. Sanders, Sam was 
allowed to depart, without any reference, on the 
part of the hostess, to the pettitoes and toasted 
cheese: to which the ladies, with such juvenile as- 
sistance as Master Bardell could afford, soon after- 
wards rendered the amplest justice — indeed, they 
wholly vanished before their strenuous exertions. 

Mr. Weller went his way back to the George and 
Vulture, and faithfully recounted to his master such 
indications of the sharp practice of Dodson and 
Fogg as he had contrived to pick up in his visit 
to Mrs. Bardell’s. An interview with Mr. Perker, 
next day, more than confirmed Mr. Weller’s state- 
ment, and Mr. Pickwick was fain to prepare for his 
Christmas visit to Dingley Dell, with the pleasant 
anticipation that some two or three months after- 
wards, an action brought against him for damages 
sustained by reason of a breach of promise of mar- 
riage, would be publicly tried in the Court of Com- 
mon Pleas: the plaintiff having all the advantages 
derivable, not only from the force of circumstances, 
but from the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg to 
boot. 


PICKWICK 


71 


CHAPTER V. 

SAMUEL WELLER MAKES A PILGRIMAGE 
TO DORKING , AND BEHOLDS HIS 
MOTHER-IN-LAW, 

There still remaining an interval of two days be- 
fore the time agreed upon for the departure of the 
Pickwickians to Dingley Dell, Mr. Weller sat him- 
self down in a back room at the George and Vul- 
ture, after eating an early dinner, to muse on the 
best way of disposing of his time. It was a remark- 
ably fine day, and he had not turned the matter over 
in his mind ten minutes, when he was suddenly 
stricken filial and affectionate; and it occurred to 
him so strongly that he ought to go down to see 
his father, and pay his duty to his mother-in-law, 
that he was lost in astonishment at his own remiss- 
ness in never thinking of this moral obligation be- 
fore. Anxious to atone for his past neglect with- 
out another hour’s delay, he straightway walked up- 
stairs to Mr. Pickwick and requested leave of ab- 
sence for this laudable purpose. 

“Certainly, Sam, certainly,” said Mr. Pickwick, his 
eyes glistening with delight at this manifestation of 
filial feeling on the part of his attendant; “certainly, 
Sam.” 

Mr. Weller made a grateful bow. 

“I am very glad to see that you have so high a 
sense of your duties as a son, Sam,” said Mr. Pick- 
wick. 


72 


DICKENS 


“I always had, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“That’s a very gratifying reflection, Sam,” said 
Mr. Pickwick, approvingly. 

“Wery, sir,” replied Mr. Weller; “if ever I 
wanted anythin’ o’ my father, I always asked 
for it in a wery ’spectful and obligin’ manner. If 
he didn’t give it to me, I took it, for fear I should 
be led to do anythin’ wrong, through not havin’ it. 
I saved him a world o’ trouble this vay, sir.” 

“That’s not precisely what I meant, Sam,” said 
Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head, with a slight smile. 

“All good feelin’, sir — the wery best intentions, 
as the gen’lm’n said ven he run away from his wife, 
’cos she seemed unhappy with him,” replied Mr. 
Weller. 

“You may go, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Thank’ee, sir,” replied Mr. Weller; and having 
made his best bow, and put on his best clothes, Sam 
planted himself on top of the Arundel coach, and 
journeyed on to Dorking. 

The Marquis of Granby, in Mrs. Weller’s time, 
was quite a model of a road-side public-house of 
the better class — just large enough to be convenient 
and small enough to be snug. 

On the opposite side of the road was a large sign- 
board on a high post, representing the head and 
shoulders of a gentleman with an apoplectic coun- 
tenance, in a red coat with deep blue facings, and 
a touch of the same blue over his three-cornered hat, 
for a sky. Over that again were a pair of flags; 
beneath the last button of his coat were a couple 
of cannon; and the whole formed an expressive and 


PICKWICK 73 

undoubted likeness of the Marquis of Granby of 
glorious memory. 

The bar window displayed a choice collection of 
geranium plants, and a well-dusted row of spirit 
phials. The open shutters bore a variety of golden 
inscriptions, eulogistic of good beds and neat wines; 
and the choice group of countrymen and hostlers 
lounging about the stable-door and horse-trough, 
afforded presumptive proof of the excellent quality 
of the ale and spirits which were sold within. Sam 
Weller paused, when he dismounted from the coach, 
to note all these little indications of a thriving busi- 
ness, with the eye of an experienced traveller; and, 
having done so, stepped in at once, highly satisfied 
with everything he had observed. 

“Now, then!” said a shrill, female voice, the in- 
stant Sam thrust in his head at the door, “what 
do you want, young man?” 

Sam looked round in the direction whence the 
voice proceeded. It came from a rather stout 
lady of comfortable appearance, who was seated 
beside the fire-place in the bar, blowing the fire 
to make the kettle boil for tea. She was not alone; 
for on the other side of the fire-place, sitting bolt 
upright in a high-backed chair, was a man in thread- 
bare, black clothes, with a back almost as long and 
stiff as that of the chair itself, who caught Sam’s 
most particular and especial attention at once. 

He was a prim-faced, red-nosed man, with a long, 
thin countenance and a semi-rattlesnake sort of eye 
— rather sharp, but decidedly bad. He wore very 
short trousers, and black, cotton stockings; which, 


74 


DICKENS 


like the rest of his apparel, were particularly rusty. 
His looks were starched, but his white neckerchief 
was not; and its long, limp ends straggled over his 
closely buttoned waistcoat in a very uncouth and 
unpicturesque fashion. A pair of old, worn, beaver 
gloves; a broad-brimmed hat; and a faded green 
umbrella, with plenty of whalebone sticking through 
the bottom, as if to counterbalance the want of a 
handle at the top, lay on a chair beside him; and 
being disposed in a very tidy and careful manner, 
seemed to imply that the red-nosed man, whoever he 
was, had no intention of going away in a hurry. 

To do the red-nosed man justice, he would have 
been very far from wise if he had entertained any 
such intention; for, to judge from all appearances, 
he must have been possessed of a most desirable 
circle of acquaintance, if he could have reasonably 
expected to be more comfortable anywhere else. The 
fire was blazing brightly, under the influence of the 
bellows ; and the kettle was singing gayly, under the 
influence of both. A small tray of tea-things was 
arranged on the table ; a plate of hot, buttered toast 
was gently simmering before the fire; and the red- 
nosed man himself was busily engaged in converting 
a large slice of bread into the same agreeable edible, 
through the instrumentality of a long, brass toasting 
fork. Beside him stood a glass of reeking hot pine- 
apple rum and water, with a slice of lemon in it; 
and every time the red-nosed man stopped to bring 
the round of bread to his eye, with a view of ascer- 
taining how it got on, he imbibed a drop or two of 


PICKWICK 75 

the hot pineapple rum and water, and smiled upon 
the rather stout lady, as she blew the fire. 

Sam was so lost in the contemplation of this com- 
fortable scene that he suffered the first inquiry of 
the rather stout lady to pass unheeded. It was not 
until it had been twice repeated, each time in a 
shriller tone, that he became conscious of the im- 
propriety of his behaviour. 

“Governor in?” inquired Sam, in reply to the 
question. 

“No, he isn’t,” replied Mrs. Weller, for the rather 
stout lady was no other than the quondam relict 
and sole executrix of the dead-and-gone Mr. Clarke. 
“No, he isn’t, and I don’t expect him, either.” 

“I suppose he’s drivin’ up today?” said Sam. 

“He may be, or he may not,” replied Mrs. Weller, 
buttering the round of toast which the red-nosed 
man had just finished. “I don’t know, and, what’s 
more, I don’t care. Ask a blessin’, Mr. Stiggins.” 

The red-nosed man did as he was desired, and 
instantly commenced on the toast with fierce 
voracity. 

The appearance of the red-nosed man had induced 
Sam, at first sight, to more than half suspect that 
he was the deputy shepherd, of whom his estimable 
parent had spoken. The moment he saw him eat all 
doubt on the subject was removed, and he perceived 
at once that if he purposed to take up his temporary 
quarters where he was, he must make his footing 
good without delay. He therefore commenced pro- 
ceedings by putting his arm over the half-door of the 
bar, coolly unbolting it, and leisurely walking in. 


76 


DICKENS 


“Mother-in-law,” said Sam, “how are you ?” 

“Why, I do believe he is a Weller!” said Mrs. 
W., raising her eyes to Sam’s face, with no very 
gratified expression of countenance. 

“I rayther think he is,” said the imperturable Sam, 
“and I hope this here reverend gen’lm’n ’ll excuse 
me saying that I wish I was the Weller as owns 
you, mother-in-law.” 

This was a double-barreled compliment. It im- 
plied that Mrs. Weller was a most agreeable female, 
and also that Mr. Stiggins had a clerical appear- 
ance. It made a visible impression at once; and 
Sam followed up his advantage by kissing his 
mother-in-law. 

“Get along with you,” said Mrs. Weller, pushing 
him away. 

“For shame, young man !” said the gentleman with 
the red nose. 

“No offense, sir, no offense,” replied Sam; “you’re 
wery right, though; it ain’t the right sort o’ thing, 
wen mothers-in-law is young and good-looking, is 
it, sir?” 

“It’s all vanity,” said Mr. Stiggins. 

“Ah, so it is,” said Mrs. Weller, setting her cap 
to rights. 

Sam thought it was, too, but he held his peace. 

The deputy shepherd seemed by no means pleased 
with Sam’s arrival; and when the first effervescence 
of the compliment had subsided, even Mrs. Weller 
looked as if she could have spared him without the 
smallest inconvenience. However, there he was; 


PICKWICK 77 

and as he couldn’t be decently turned out, they all 
three sat down to tea. 

“And how’s father?” said Sam. 

At this inquiry, Mrs. Weller raised her hands, 
and turned up her eyes, as if the subject were too 
painful to be alluded to. 

Mr. Stiggins groaned. 

“What’s the matter with that ’ere gen’lm’n?” in- 
quired Sam. 

“He’s shocked at the way your father goes on in,” 
replied Mrs. Weller. 

“Oh, he is, is he?” said Sam. 

“And with too good reason,” added Mrs. Weller, 
gravely. 

Mr. Stiggins took up a fresh piece of toast and 
groaned heavily. 

“He is a dreadful reprobate,” said Mrs. Weller. 

“A man of wrath !” exclaimed Mr. Stiggins. He 
took a large semi-circular bite out of the toast, and 
groaned again. 

Sam felt very strongly disposed to give Mr. Stig- 
gins something to groan for, but he repressed his 
inclination, and merely asked: “What’s the old ’un 
up to, now?” 

“Up to, indeed!” said Mrs. Weller; “oh, he has a 
hard heart. Night after night does this excellent 
man — don’t frown, Mr. Stiggins : I will say you are 
an excellent man — come and sit here, for hours to- 
gether, and it has not the least effect upon him.” 

“Well, that is odd,” said Sam ; “it ’ud have a wery 
considerable effect upon me, if I wos in his place; 
I know that.” 


78 


DICKENS 


“The fact is, my young friend,” said Mr. Stiggins 
solemnly, “he has an obderrate bosom. Oh, my 
young friend, who else could have resisted the plead- 
ings of sixteen of our fairest sisters, and withstood 
their exhortations to subscribe to our noble society 
for providing the infant negroes of the West Indies 
with flannel waistcoats and moral pocket handker- 
chiefs?” 

“What’s a moral pocket ankercher?” said Sam; 
“I never see one o’ them articles o’ furniter.” 

“Those which combine amusement with instruc- 
tion, my young friend,” replied Mr. Stiggins ; “blend- 
ing select tales with wood-cuts.” 

“Oh, I know,” said Sam ; “them as hangs up in 
the linen drapers’ shops, with beggars’ petitions and 
all that ’ere upon ’em?” 

Mr. Stiggins began a third round of toast and 
nodded assent. 

“And he wouldn’t be pursuaded by the ladies, 
wouldn’t he?” said Sam. 

“Sat and smoked his pipe and said the infant ne- 
groes were — what did he say the infant negroes 
were?” said Mrs. Weller. 

“Little humbugs,” replied Mr. Stiggins, deeply af- 
fected. 

“Said the infant negroes were little humbugs,” 
repeated Mrs. Weller. And they both groaned at 
the atrocious conduct of the old gentleman. 

A great many more iniquities of a similar nature 
might have been disclosed, only the toast being all 
eaten, the tea having got very weak, and Sam hold- 
ing out no indications of meaning to go, Mr. Stig- 


PICKWICK 


79 


gins suddenly recollected that he had a most press* 
ing appointment with the shepherd, and took him- 
self off accordingly. 

The tea-things had been scarcely put away, and 
the hearth swept up, when the London coach de- 
posited Mr. Weller, senior, at the door; his legs 
deposited him in the bar; and his eyes showed him 
his son. 

“What, Sammy!” exclaimed the father. 

“What, old Nobs!” ejaculated the son. And they 
shook hands heartily. 

“Wery glad to see you, Sammy,” said the elder Mr. 
Weller, “though how you’ve managed to get over 
your mother-in-law is a mystery to me. I only vish 
you’d write me out the receipt, that’s all.” 

“Hush !” said Sam ; “she’s at home, old feller.” 

“She ain’t vithin hearing,” replied Mr. Weller; 
“she always goes and blows up, downstairs, for a 
couple of hours arter tea; so we’ll just give our- 
selves a damp, Sammy.” 

Saying this, Mr. Weller mixed two glasses of 
spirits and water, and produced a couple of pipes. 
The father and son sitting down opposite each 
other: Sam on one side the fire, in the highbacked 
chair, and Mr. Weller, senior, on the other, in an 
easy ditto; they proceeded to enjoy themselves with 
all due gravity. 

“Anybody been here, Sammy?” asked Mr. Weller, 
senior, drily, after a long silence. 

Sam nodded an expressive assent. 

“Red-nosed chap?” inquired Mr. Weller. 

Sam nodded again. 


80 


DICKENS 


“Amiable man that ’ere, Sammy,” said Mr. Wel- 
ler, smoking violently. 

“Seems so,” observed Sam. 

“Good hand at accounts,” said Mr. Weller. 

“Is he?” said Sam. 

“Borrows eighteenpence on Monday, and comes 
on Tuesday for a shillin’ to make it up half a 
crown ; calls again on Vensday for another half 
crown to make it five shillin’s; and goes on, doub- 
ling, till he gets up to a five pound note in no time, 
like them sums, in the Tithmetic book ’bout the nails 
in the horse’s shoes, Sammy.” 

Sam intimated by a nod that he recollected the 
problem alluded to by his parent. 

“So you vouldn’t subscribe to the flannel veskits?” 
said Sam, after another interval of smoking. 

“Cert’nly not,” replied Mr. Weller; “what’s the 
good o’ flannel veskits to the young niggers abroad? 
But I’ll tell you what it is, Sammy,” said Mr. Wel- 
ler, lowering his voice, and bending across the fire- 
place : “I’d come down wery handsome towards 
strait veskits for some people at home.” 

As Mr. Weller said this, he slowly recovered his 
former position, and winked at his first-born in a 
profound manner. 

“It cert’nly seems a queer start to send out pocket 
ankerchers to people as don’t know the use on ’em,” 
observed Sam. 

“They’re alvays doin’ some gammon of that sort, 
Sammy,” replied his father. “T’other Sunday I 
wos walkin’ up the road, wen who should I see, a 
standin’ at a chapel door, with a blue soup plate 


PICKWICK 81 

in her hand, but your mother-in-law! I werily be- 
lieve there was change for a couple o’ suy’rins in it 
then, Sammy, all in ha-pence; and as the people 
come out, they rattled their pennies in, till you’d 
ha’ thought that no mortal plate as ever was baked, 
could ha’ stood the wear and tear. What d’ye 
think it was all for?” 

“For another tea-drinkin’, perhaps,” said Sam. 

“Not a bit on it,” replied the father; “for the 
shepherd’s water rate, Sammy.” 

“The shepherd’s water rate!” said Sam. 

“Ay,” replied Mr. Weller, “there was three 
quarters owin’, and the shepherd hadn’t paid a 
farden, not he — perhaps it might be on account that 
water warn’t o’ so much use to him, for it’s wery 
little o’ that tap he drinks, Sammy, wery; he knows 
a trick worth a good half dozen of that, he does. 
Hows’ever, it warn’t paid, and so they cuts the 
water off. Down goes the shepherd to chapel, 
gives out as he’s a persecuted saint, and says he 
hopes the heart of the turncock as cut the water off 
’ll be softened, and turned in the right vay; but he 
rayther thinks he’s booked for somethin* uncom- 
fortable. Upon this, the women calls a meetin’, sings 
a hymn, wotes your mother-in-law into the chair, 
wolunteers a collection next Sunday, and hands it 
all over to the shepherd. And if he ain’t got enough 
out on ’em, Sammy, to make him free of the water 
company for life,” said Mr. Weller, in conclusion, 
“I’m one Dutchman, and you’re another, and that’s 
all about it.” 


82 DICKENS 

Mr. Weller smoked for some minutes in silence, 
and then resumed : 

“The worst o’ these here shepherds is, my boy, 
that they reg’larly turns the heads of all the young 
ladies, about here. Lord bless their little hearts, 
they thinks it’s all right, and don’t know no better; 
but they’re the wictims o’ gammon, Samivel, they’re 
the wictims o’ gammon.” 

“I s’pose they are,” said Sam. 

“Nothin’ else,” said Mr. Weller, shaking his head 
gravely, “and wot aggravates me, Samivel, is to see 
’em a wastin’ all their time and labour in making 
clothes for copper-coloured people as don’t want ’em, 
and takin’ no notice of the flesh-coloured Christians 
as do. If I’d my vay, Samivel, I’d just stick some 
o’ these here lazy shepherds behind a heavy wheel- 
barrow, and run ’em up and down a fourteen-inch- 
plank all day. That ’ud shake the nonsense out of 
’em, if anythin’ vould.” 

Mr. Weller having delivered this gentle recipe 
with strong emphasis, eked out by a variety of nods 
and contortions of the eye, emptied his glass at a 
draught, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe, with 
native dignity. 

He was engaged in this operation, when a shrill 
voice was heard in the passage. 

“Here’s your dear relation, Sammy,” said Mr. 
Weller; and Mrs. W. hurried into the room. 

“Oh, you've come back, have you!” said Mrs. 
Weller. 

“Yes, my dear,” replied Mr. Weller, filling a fresh 
pipe. 


PICKWICK 


83 


“Has Mr. Stiggins been back?” said Mrs. Weller. 

“No, my dear, he hasn’t,” replied Mr. Weller, light- 
ing the pipe by the ingenious process of holding to 
the bowl thereof, between the tongs, a red-hot coal 
from the adjacent fire; “and what’s more, my dear, I 
shall manage to surwive it, if he don’t come back 
at all.” 

“Ugh, you wretch!” said Mrs. Weller. 

“Thank’ee, my love,” said Mr. Weller. 

“Come, come, father,” said Sam, “none o’ these 
little lovin’s afore strangers. Here’s the reverend 
gen’lm’n a cornin’ in now.” 

At this anouncement, Mrs. Weller hastily wiped 
off the tears which she had just begun to force on; 
and Mr. W. drew his chair sullenly into the chim- 
ney corner. 

Mr. Stiggins was easily prevailed on to take an- 
other glass of the hot pineapple rum and water, 
and a second, and a third, and then to refresh him- 
self with a slight supper, previous to beginning 
again. He sat on the same side as Mr. Weller 
senior, and every time he could contrive to do so, 
unseen by his wife, that gentleman indicated to his 
son the hidden emotions of his bosom by shaking 
his fist over the deputy shepherd’s head : a process 
which afforded his son the most unmingled delight 
and satisfaction: the more especially as Mr. Stig- 
gins went on, quietly drinking the hot pineapple rum 
and water, wholly unconscious of what as going 
forward. 

The major part of the conversation was confined 
to Mrs. Weller and the reverend Mr. Stiggins; and 


84 


DICKENS 


the topics principally descanted on were the virtues 
of the shepherd, the worthiness of his flock, and 
the high crimes and misdemeanors of everybody be- 
side; dissertations which the elder Mr. Weller oc- 
casionally interrupted by half-suppressed references 
to a gentleman of the name of Walker, and other 
running commentaries of the same kind. 

At length Mr. Stiggins, with several most indubi- 
table symptoms of having quite as much pineapple 
rum and water about him as he could comfortably 
accommodate, took his hat and his leave; and Sam 
was, immediately afterward, shown to bed by his 
father. The respectable old gentleman wrung his 
hand fervently, and seemed disposed to address 
some observation to his son; but on Mrs. Weller 
advancing toward him, he appeared to relinquish 
that intention, and abruptly bade him good night. 

Sam was up betimes next day, and having par- 
taken of a hasty breakfast, prepared to return to 
London. He had scarcely set foot without the 
house, when his father stood before him. 

“Goin’, Sammy?" inquired Mr. Weller. 

“Off at once,” replied Sam. 

“I vish you could muffle that ’ere Stiggins, and 
take him with you,” said Mr. Weller. 

“I am ashamed on you!” said Sam, reproachfully; 
“what do you let him show his red nose in the 
Markis o* Granby at all for?” 

Mr. Weller the elder fixed on his son an earnest 
look, and replied, “’Cause I’m a married man, Sami- 
vel, ’cause I’m a married man. Wen you’re a mar- 
ried man, Samivel, you’ll understand a good many 


PICKWICK 


85 


things as you don’t understand now; but vether 
it’s worth while goin’ through so much, to learn 
so little, as the charity-boy said ven he got to the 
end of the alphabet, is a matter o’ taste. I rayther 
think it isn’t.” 

“Well,” said Sam, “good bye.” 

“Tar, tar, Sammy,” replied his father. 

“I’ve only got to say this here,” said Sam, stop- 
ping short, “that if I was the properiator o’ the 
Markis o’ Granby, and that ’ere Stiggins came and 
made toast in my bar, I’d ” 

“What?” interposed Mr. Weller, with great anx- 
iety. “What?” 

“ — Pison his rum and water,” said Sam. 

“No!” said Mr. Weller, shaking his son eagerly 
by the hand, “would you raly, Sammy; would you, 
though ?” 

“I would,” said Sam. “I wouldn’t be too hard 
upon him, at first. I’d drop him in the water-butt, 
and put the lid on; and if I found he was insensible 
to kindness, I’d try the other persvasion.” 

The elder Mr. Weller bestowed a look of deep, 
unspeakable admiration on his son; and, having 
once more grasped his hand, walked slowly away, 
revolving in his mind the numerous reflections to 
which his advice had given rise. 

Sam looked after him, until he turned a corner 
of the road, and then set forward on his walk 
to London. He meditated, at first, on the probable 
consequences of his own advice, and the likelihood 
and unlikelihood of his father’s adopting it. He 
dismissed the subject from his mind, however, with 


86 


DICKENS 


the consolatory reflection that time alone would 
show; and this is the reflection we would impress 
upon the reader. 


CHAPTER VI. 

IS WHOLLY DEVOTED TO A FULL AND 

FAITHFUL REPORT OF THE MEMORABLE 

TRIAL OF BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK. 

“I wonder what the foreman of tne jury, whoever 
he’ll be, has got for breakfast,” said Mr. Snod- 
grass, by way of keeping up a conversation on the 
eventful morning of the fourteenth of February. 

“Ah!” said Perker, “I hope he’s got a good one.” 

“Why so?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“Highly important; very important, my dear sir,” 
replied Perker. “A good, contented, well-break- 
fasted juryman is a capital thing to get hold of. 
Discontented or hungry jurymen, my dear sir, al- 
ways find for the plaintiff.” 

“Bless by heart,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking very 
blank; “what do they do that for?” 

“Why, I don’t know,” replied the little man, 
coolly; “saves time, I suppose. If it’s near dinner 
time, the foreman takes out his watch when the 
jury have retired, and says, ‘Dear me, gentlemen, ten 
minutes of five, I declare! I dine at five, gentle- 
men.’ ‘So do I,’ says everybody else, except two 
men who ought to have dined at three, and seem 
more than half disposed to stand out in consequence. 
The foreman smiles, and puts up his watch: — ‘Well, 


PICKWICK 


87 


gentlemen, what do we say? plaintiff or defendant, 
gentlemen ? I rather think, so far as I am con- 
cerned gentlemen— I say, I rather think— but don’t 
let that influence you — I rather think the plaintiff’s 
the man.’ Upon this, two or three other men are 
sure to say that they think so too — as of course 
they do ; and then they get on very unanimously and 
comfortably. Ten minutes past nine!” said the lit- 
tle man, looking at his watch. “Time we were off, 
my dear sir; breach of promise trial — court is gen- 
erally full in such cases. You had better ring for 
a coach, my dear sir, or we shall be rather late.” 

Mr. Pickwick immediately rang the bell; and a 
coach having been procured, the four Pickwickians 
and Mr. Perker ensconced themselves therein, and 
drove to Guildhall; Sam Weller, Mr. Lowten, and 
the blue bag, followed in a cab. 

“Lowten,” said Perker, when they had reached 
the outer hall of the court, “put Mr. Pickwick’s 
friends in the students’ box ; Mr. Pickwick him- 
self had better sit by me. This way, my dear sir, 
this way.” Taking Mr. Pickwick by the coat sleeve, 
the little man led him to the low seat just beneath 
the desks of the King’s Counsel, which is con- 
structed for the convenience of attorneys, who from 
that spot can whisper into the ear of the leading 
counsel in the case, any instructions that may be 
necessary during the progress of the trial. The 
occupants of this seat are invisible to the great body 
of spectators, inasmuch as they sit on a much lower 
level than either the barristers or the audience, 
whose seats are raised above the floor. Of course 


88 DICKENS 

they have their backs to both, and their faces to- 
ward the judge. 

“That’s the witness box, I suppose?” said Mr. 
Pickwick, pointing to a kind of pulpit, with a brass 
rail, on his left hand. 

“That’s the witness box, my dear sir,” replied 
Perker, disinterring a quantity of papers from the 
blue bag, which Lowten had just deposited at his 
feet. 

“And that,” said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a 
couple of enclosed seats on his right, “that’s where 
the jurymen sit, is it not?” 

“The identical place, my dear sir,” replied Perker, 
tapping the lid of his snuffbox. 

Mr. Pickwick stood up in a state of great agita- 
tion, and took a glance at the court. There were 
already a pretty large sprinkling of spectators in 
the gallery, and a numerous muster of gentlemen in 
wigs, in the barristers’ seats, who presented, as a 
body, all that pleasing and extensive variety of nose 
and whisker for which the bar of England is so 
justly celebrated. Such of the gentlemen as had 
a brief to carry, carried it in as conspicuous a man- 
ner as possible, and occasionally scratched their 
noses therewith, to impress the fact more strongly 
on the observation of the spectators. Other gen- 
tlemen, who had no briefs to show, carried under 
their arms goodly octavos, with a red label behind, 
and that under-done-pie-crust-colored cover, which 
is technically known as “law calf.” Others, who 
had neither briefs nor books, thrust their hands into 
their pockets, and looked as wise as they conveni- 


PICKWICK 


89 


ently could; others, again, moved here and there 
with great restlessness and earnestness of manner, 
content to awaken thereby the admiration and as- 
tonishment of the uninitiated strangers. The whole, 
to the great wonderment of Mr. Pickwick, were 
divided into little groups, who were chatting and 
discussing the news of the day in the most unfeel- 
ing manner possible — just as if no trial at all were 
coming on. 

A bow from Mr. Phunky, as he entered, and took 
his seat behind the row appropriated to the King’s 
Counsel, attracted Mr. Pickwick’s attention; and he 
had scarcely returned it, when Mr. Sergeant Snub- 
bin appeared, followed by Mr. Mallard, who half 
hid the Sergeant behind a large crimson bag, which 
he placed on his table, and, after shaking hands 
with Perker, withdrew. Then there entered two 
or three more Sergeants; and among them, one 
with a fat body and a red face, who nodded in a 
friendly manner to Mr. Sergeant Snubbin, and said 
it was a fine morning. 

“Who’s that red-faced man, who said it was a fine 
morning, and nodded to our counsel?” whispered 
Mr. Pickwick. 

“Mr. Sergeant Buzfuz,” replied Perker. “He’s 
opposed to us; he leads on the other side. That 
gentleman behind him is Mr. Skimpin, his junior.” 

Mr. Pickwick was on the point of inquiring, with 
great abhorrence of the man’s cold-blooded villainy, 
how Mr. Sergeant Buzfuz, who was counsel for the 
opposite party, dared to presume to tell Mr. Ser- 
geant Snubbin. who was counsel for him, that it 


90 


DICKENS 


was a fine morning, when he was interrupted by a 
general rising of the barristers, and a loud cry of 
“Silence!” from the officers of the court. Looking 
round, he found that this was caused by the en- 
trance of the judge. 

Mr. Justice Stareleigh (who sat in the absence of 
the Chief Justice, occasioned by indisposition) was 
a most particularly short man, and so fat, that he 
seemed all face and waistcoat. He rolled in, upon 
two little turned legs, and having bobbed gravely to 
the bar, who bobbed gravely to him, put his little legs 
underneath the table, and his little three-cornered 
hat upon it; and when Mr. Justice Stareleigh had 
done this, all you could see of him was two queer 
little eyes, one broad pink face, and somewhere 
about half of a big and very comical looking wig. 

The judge had no sooner taken his seat than the 
officer on the floor of the court called out “Si- 
lence!” in a commanding tone, upon which another 
officer of the gallery cried “Silence!” in an angry 
manner, whereupon three or four more ushers 
shouted “Silence!” in a voice of indignant remon- 
strance. This being done, a gentleman in black, 
who sat below the judge, proceeded to call over 
the names of the jury; and, after a great deal of 
bawling, it was discovered that only ten special 
jurymen were present. Upon this, Mr. Sergeant 
Buzfuz prayed a tales; the gentleman in black then 
proceeded to press into the special jury, two of the 
common jurymen; and a greengrocer and a chemist 
were caught directly. 

“Answer to your names, gentlemen, that you may 


PICKWICK 91 

be sworn/’ said the gentleman in black. “Richard 
Upwitch.” 

“Here,” said the greengrocer. 

“Thomas Groffin.” 

“Here,” said the chemist. 

“Take the book, gentlemen. You shall well and 
truly try — ” 

“I beg the court’s pardon,” said the chemist, who 
was a tall, thin, yellow-visaged man, “but I hope 
this court will excuse my attendance.” 

“On what grounds, sir?” said Mr. Justice Stare- 
leigh. 

“I have no assistant, my Lord,” said the chemist. 

“I can’t help that, sir,” said Mr. Justice Stare- 
leigh. “You should hire one.” 

“I can’t afford it, my Lord,” rejoined the chemist. 

“Then you ought to be able to afford it, sir,” 
said the judge, reddening; for Mr. Justice Stare- 
leigh’s temper bordered on the irritable, and 
brooked not contradiction. 

“I know I ought to, if I got on as well as I 
deserved, but I don’t, my Lord,” answered the 
chemist. 

“Swear that gentleman,” said the judge, peremp- 
torily. 

The officer had got no further than the “You 
shall well and truly try,” when he was again in- 
terrupted by the chemist. 

“I am to be sworn, my Lord, am I?” said the 
chemist. 

“Certainly, sir,” replied the testy little judge. 

“Very well, my Lord,” replied the chemist, in a 


92 


DICKENS 


resigned manner. “Then there’ll be murder before 
this trial’s over; that’s all. Swear me, if you please, 
sir;” and sworn the chemist was, before the judge 
could find words to utter. 

“I merely wanted to observe, my Lord,” said the 
chemist, taking his seat with great deliberation, 
“that I’ve left nobody but an errand boy in my shop. 
He is a very nice boy, my Lord, but he is not ac- 
quainted with drugs ; and I know that the prevailing 
impression on his mind is, that Epsom salts means 
oxalic acid; and syrup of senna, laudanum. That’s 
all, my Lord.” With this, the tall chemist com- 
posed himself into a comfortable attitude, and as- 
suming a pleasant expression of countenance, ap- 
peared to have prepared himself for the worst. 

Mr. Pickwick was regarding the chemist with 
feelings of the deepest horror, when a slight sensa- 
tion was perceptible in the body of the court; and 
immediately afterwards Mrs. Bardell, supported by 
Mrs. Cluppins, was led in, and placed, in a drooping 
state, at the other end of the seat on which Mr. 
Pickwick sat. An extra-sized umbrella was then 
handed in by Mr. Dodson, and a pair of pattens by 
Mr. Fogg, each of whom had prepared a most sym- 
pathizing and melancholy face for the occasion. 
Mrs. Sanders then appeared, leading in Master 
Bardell. At sight of her child, Mrs. Bardell started ; 
suddenly recollecting herself, she kissed him in a 
frantic manner; then relapsing into a state of hys- 
terical imbecility, the good lady requested to be 
informed where she was. In reply to this, Mrs. 
Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders turned their heads away 


PICKWICK 


93 


and wept, while Messrs. Dodson and Fogg entreated 
the plaintiff to compose herself. Sergeant Buzfuz 
rubbed his eyes very hard with a large white hand- 
kerchief, and gave an appealing look toward the 
jury, while the judge was visibly affected, and sev- 
eral of the beholders tried to cough down their 
emotions. 

“Very good notion that, indeed,’' whispered 
Perker to Mr. Pickwick. “Capital fellows those 
Dodson and Fogg; excellent ideas of effect, my dear 
sir, excellent.” 

As Perker spoke, Mrs. Bardell began to recover 
by slow degrees, while Mrs. Cluppins, after a care- 
ful survey of Master Bardell’s buttons and the but- 
ton holes to which they severally belonged, placed 
him on the floor of the court in front of his mother 
— a commanding position in which he could not fail 
to awaken the full commiseration and sympathy of 
both judge and jury. This was not done without 
considerable opposition, and many tears, on the 
part of the young gentleman himself, who had cer- 
tain inward misgivings that the placing him within 
the full glare of the judge’s eye was only a formal 
prelude to his being immediately ordered away for 
instant execution, or for transportation beyond the 
seas, during the whole term of his natural life, at 
the very least. 

“Bardell and Pickwick,” cried the gentleman in 
black, calling on the case, which stood first on the 
list. 

“I am for the plaintiff, my Lord,” said Mr. Ser- 
geant Buzfuz. 


94 


DICKENS 


“Who is with you, brother Buzfuz?” said the 
judge. Mr. Skimpin bowed, to intimate that he was. 

“I appear for the defendant, my Lord,” said Mr. 
Sergeant Snubbin. 

“Anybody with you, brother Snubbin?” inquired 
the court. 

“Mr. Phunky, my Lord,” replied Sergeant Snub- 
bin. 

“Sergeant Buzfuz and Mr. Skimpin for the plain- 
tiff, said the judge, writing down the names in his 
notebook, and reading as he wrote, “for the de- 
fendant, Sergeant Snubbin and Mr. Monkey.” 

“Beg your Lordship’s pardon, Phunky.” 

“Oh, very good,” said the judge; “I never had 
the pleasure of hearing the gentleman’s name be- 
fore.” Here Mr. Phunky bowed and smiled, and 
the judge bowed and smiled, too, and then Mr. 
Phunky, blushing into the very whites of his eyes, 
tried to look as if he didn’t know that everybody 
was gazing at him — a thing which no man ever suc- 
ceeded in doing yet, or in all reasonable possibility, 
ever will. 

“Go on,” said the judge. 

The ushers again called silence, and Mr. 
Skimpin proceeded to “open the case ;” and the 
case appeared to have very little inside it when he 
had opened it, for he kept such particulars as he 
knew, completely to himself, and sat down, after a 
lapse of three minutes, leaving the jury in precisely 
the same advanced stage of wisdom as they were in 
before. 

Sergeant Buzfuz then rose with all the majesty 


PICKWICK 


95 


and dignity which the grave nature of the proceed- 
ings demanded, and having whispered to Dodson, 
and conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown 
over his shoulders, settled his wig, and addressed 
the jury. 

Sergeant Buzfuz began by saying, that never, in 
the whole course of his professional experience — 
never, from the very first moment of his applying 
himself to the study and practice of the law — had 
he approached a case with feelings of such deep 
emotion, or with such a heavy sense of the re- 
sponsibility imposed upon him — a responsibility, he 
would say, which he could never have supported, 
were he not buoyed up and sustained by a convic- 
tion so strong, that it amounted to positive cer- 
tainty that the cause of truth and justice, or, in 
other words, the cause of his much-injured and 
most oppressed client, must prevail with the high- 
minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now 
saw in that box before him. 

Counsel always begin in this way, because it puts 
the jury on the very best terms with themselves, 
and makes them think what sharp fellows they must 
be. A visible effect was produced immediately; sev- 
eral jurymen began to take voluminous notes with 
the utmost eagerness. 

“You have heard from my learned friend, gentle- 
men,” continued Sergeant Buzfuz, well knowing 
that, from the learned friend alluded to, the gentle- 
men of the jury had heard just nothing at all — “you 
have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen, that 
this is an action for a breach of promise of mar- 


96 


DICKENS 


riage, in which the damages are laid at £1,500. But 
you have not heard from my learned friend, inas- 
much as it did not come within my learned friend’s 
province to tell you, what are the facts and cir- 
cumstances of the case. Those facts and circum- 
stances, gentlemen, you shall hear detailed by me, 
and proved by the unimpeachable female whom I 
will place in that box before you.” 

Here Mr. Sergeant Buzfuz, with a tremendous 
emphasis on the word “box,” smote his table with 
a mighty sound, and glanced at Dodoson and Fogg, 
who nodded admiration of the sergeant, and indig- 
nant defiance of the defendant. 

“The plaintiff, gentlemen,” continued Sergeant Buz- 
fuz, in a soft and melancholy voice, “the plaintiff 
is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. 
Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem 
and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guard- 
ians of his royal revenues, glided almost impercept- 
ibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that re- 
pose and peace which a custom house can never 
afford.” 

At this particular description of the decease of 
Mr. Bardell, who had been knocked on the head 
with a quart pot in a public house cellar, the learned 
sergeant’s voice faltered and he proceeded with 
emotion : 

“Some time beiore his death, he had stamped his 
likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy, the 
only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bar- 
dell shrunk from the world, and courted the re- 
tirement and tranquillity of Goswell street; and here 


PICKWICK 


97 


she placed in her front parlor window a written 
placard, bearing this inscription — ‘Apartments fur- 
nished for single gentlemen. Inquire within.’ ” Here 
Sergeant Buzfuz paused, while several gentlemen of 
the jury took a note of the document. 

“There is no date to that, is there, sir?” inquired 
a juror. 

“There is no date, gentlemen,” replied Sergeant 
Buzfuz; “but I am instructed to say that it was put 
in the plaintiff’s parlor window just this time three 
years. I entreat the attention of the jury to the 
wording of this document — ‘Apartments furnished 
for a single gentleman!’ Mrs. Bardell’s opinions of 
the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a 
long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of 
her lost husband. She had no fear — she had no dis- 
trust — she had no suspicion — all was confidence and 
reliance. ‘Mr. Bardell,’ said the widow; ‘Mr. Bar- 
dell was a man of honor — Mr. Bardell was a man 
of his word — Mr. Bardell was no deceiver — Mr. 
Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to 
single gentlemen I look for protection, for assist- 
ance, for comfort, and for consolation — in single 
gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to re- 
mind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first 
won my young and untried affections; to a single 
gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.’ Actuated 
by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the 
best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), 
the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, fur- 
nished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to 
her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her par- 


DICKENS 


lor window. Did it remain there long? No. The 
serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the 
mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at 
work. Before the bill had been in the parlor win- 
dow three days — three days, gentlemen — a Being, 
erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward 
semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked 
at the door of Mrs. Bardell’s house. He inquired 
within; he took the lodgings; and on the very next 
day he entered into the possesion of them. This 
man was Pickwick — Pickwick the defendant.” 

Sergeant Buzfuz, who had proceeded with such 
volubility that his face was perfectly crimson, here 
paused for breath. The silence awoke Mr. Justice 
Stareleigh, who immediately wrote down something 
with a pen without any ink in it, and looked un- 
usually profound, to impress the jury with the be- 
lief that he always thought most deeply with his 
eyes shut. Sergeant Buzfuz proceeded. 

“Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the sub- 
ject presents but few attractions; and I, gentlemen, 
am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men,, 
to delight in the contemplation of revolting heart- 
lessness and of systematic villainy.” 

Here Mr. Pickwick, who had been writhing in 
silence for some time, gave a violent start, as if 
some, vague idea of assaulting Sergeant Buzfuz, in 
the august presence of justice and law, suggested 
itself to his mind. An admonitory gesture from 
Perker restrained him, and he listened to the 
learned gentleman’s continuation with a look of in- 


PICKWICK , 99 

dignation, which contrasted forcibly with the ad- 
miring faces of Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders. 

“I say systematic villainy, gentlemen,” said Ser- 
geant Buzfuz, looking through Mr. Pickwick, and 
talking at him ; “and when I say systematic vil- 
lainy, let me tell the defendant Pickwick if he be 
in court, as I am informed he is, that it would 
have been more decent in him, more becoming, in 
better judgment, and in better taste, if he had 
stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any 
gestures of dissent or disapprobation in which he 
may indulge in this court will not go down with 
you ; that you will know how to value and how to 
appreciate them; and let me tell him further, as my 
lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the 
discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be 
intimidated nor bullied, nor put down ; and that 
any attempt to do either the one or the other, or 
the first, or the last, will recoil on the head of the 
attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his 
name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or 
Brown, or Thompson.” 

This little divergence from the subject in hand 
had, of course, the intended effect of turning all 
eyes to Mr. Pickwick. Sergeant Buzfuz, having 
partially recovered from the state of moral eleva- 
tion into which he had lashed himself, resumed: 

“I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years 
Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and with- 
out interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell’s 
house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during 
the whole of that time, waited on him, attended to 

LOFa 


100 


DICKENS 


his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen 
for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, 
aired and prepared it for wear when it came home, 
and, in short, enjoyed his .fullest trust and confi- 
dence. I shall show you that, on many occasions, 
he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even six- 
pences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you, 
by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible 
for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that 
on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, 
after inquiring whether he had won any alley tors 
or commoneys lately (both of which I understand 
to be a particular species of marbles much prized 
by the youth of this town), made use of this re- 
markable expression — ‘How should you like to have 
another father?’ I shall prove to you, gentlemen, 
that about a year ago Pickwick suddenly began to 
absent himself from home, during long intervals, 
as if with the intention of gradually breaking off 
from my client; but I shall show you also that his 
resolution was not at that time sufficiently strong, 
or that his better feelings conquered, if better feel- 
ings he has, or that the charms and accomplishments 
of my client prevailed against his unmanly inten- 
tions; by proving to you that on one occasion, when 
he returned from the country, he distinctly and in 
terms offered her marriage : previously, however, 
taking special care that there should be no witnesses 
to their solemn contract; and I am in a situation 
to prove to you, on the testimony of three of his 
own friends — most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen — 
most unwilling witnesses — that on that morning he 


PICKWICK 


101 


was discovered by them holding the plaintiff in his 
arms, and soothing her agitation by his caresses and 
endearments.” 

A visible impression was produced upon the 
auditors by this part of the learned sergeant’s ad- 
dress. Drawing forth two very small scraps of 
paper, he proceeded — 

“And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two 
letters have passed between these parties, letters 
which are admitted to be in the handwriting of the 
defendant, and which speak volumes indeed. These 
letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They 
are not open, fervent, eloquent epistles, breathing 
nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. 
They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, 
but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched 
in the most glowing language and the most poetic 
imagery — letters that must be viewed with a cautious 
and suspicious eye — letters that were evidently in- 
tended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and de- 
lude any third parties into whose hands they might 
fall. Let me read the first: — ‘Garraway’s, twelve 
o’clock. Dear Mrs. B. — Chops and Tomata sauce. 
Yours, Pickwick.* Gentlemen, what does this mean? 
Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, Pickwick! 
Chops ! Gracious heavens ! and Tomata sauce ! 
Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and con- 
fiding female to be trifled away by such shallow 
artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, 
which is in itself suspicious. — ‘Dear Mrs. B., I shall 
not be at home till tomorrow. Slow coach.* And 
then follows this very very remarkable expression— 


102 


DICKENS 


‘Don’t trouble yourself about the warming-pan.’ 
The warming-pan ! Why, gentlemen, who does 
trouble himself about a warming-pan? When was 
the peace of mind of man or woman broken or dis- 
turbed by a warming-pan, which . is in itself a 
harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a 
comforting article of domestic furniture? Why is 
Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate 
herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no 
doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire 
— a mere substitute for some endearing word or 
promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of cor- 
respondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with 
a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I 
am not in a condition to explain? And what does 
this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I 
know it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, 
who has most unquestionably been a criminally 
slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but 
whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accel- 
erated, and whose wheels gentlemen, as he will 
find to his cost, will v'ery soon be greased by you !” 

Mr. Sergeant Buzfuz paused in this place, to see 
whether the jury smiled at his joke; but as nobody 
took it but the green-grocer, whose sensitiveness 
on the subject was very probably occasioned by his 
having subjected a chaise-cart to the process in 
question on that identical morning, the learned 
sergeant considered it advisable to undergo a slight 
relapse into the dismals before he concluded. 

“But enough of this, gentlemen,” said Mr. Ser- 
geant Buzfuz, “it is difficult to smile with an aching 


PICKWICK 


103 


heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies 
are awakened. My client’s hopes and prospects are 
ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her 
occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down — but 
there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass 
and repass — but there is no invitation for them to 
inquire within or without. All is gloom and silence 
in the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; 
his infantile sports are disregarded when his mother 
weeps ; his ‘alley tors’ and his ‘commoneys’ are alike 
neglected ; he forgets the long familiar cry of 
‘knuckle down/ and at tip-cheese, or odd and even, 
his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pick- 
wick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis 
in the desert of Goswell street — Pickwick, who has 
choked up the well and thrown ashes on the sward 
— Pickwick, who comes before you today with his 
heartless Tomata sauce and warming-pans — Pick- 
wick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery 
and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. 
Damages, gentlemen — heavy damages is the only 
punishment with which you can visit him; the only 
recompense you can award to my client. And for 
those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, 
a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a 
dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury 
of her civilized countrymen.” With this beautiful 
peroration Mr. Sergeant Buzfuz sat down and Mr. 
Justice Stareleigh woke up. 

“Call Elizabeth Cluppins,” said Sergeant Buzfuz 
rising a minute afterward with renewed vigor. 

The nearest usher called for Elizabeth Tuppins; 


104 


DICKENS 


another one, at a little distance off, demanded Eliz- 
abeth Jupkins; and a third rushed in a breathless 
state into King street and screamed for Elizabeth 
Muffins till he was hoarse. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Cluppins, with the combined as- 
sistance of Mrs. Bardell, Mrs. Sanders, Mr. Dodson 
and Mr. Fogg, was hoisted into the witness-box; 
and when she was safely perched on the top step, 
Mrs. Bardell stood on the bottom one, with the 
pocket handkerchief and pattens in one hand and a 
glass bottle that might hold about a quarter of a 
pint of smelling salts in the other, ready for any 
emergency. Mrs. Sanders, whose eyes were intently 
fixed on the judge’s face, planted herself close by, 
with the large umbrella: keeping her right thumb 
pressed on the spring with an earnest countenance, 
as if she were fully prepared to put it up at a 
moment’s notice. 

“Mrs. Cluppins,” said Sergeant Buzfuz, “pray 
compose yourself, ma’am.” Of course, directly Mrs. 
Cluppins was desired to compose herself she sobbed 
with increased vehemence, and gave divers alarming 
manifestations of an approaching fainting fit, or, as 
she afterward said, of her feelings being too many 
for her. 

“Do you recollect, Mrs. Cluppins?” said Sergeant 
Buzfuz, after a few unimportant questions, “do you 
recollect being in Mrs. Bardell’s back one pair of 
stairs on one particular morning in July last, when 
she was dusting Pickwick’s apartment?” 

“Yes, my Lord and Jury, I do,” replied Mrs. 
Cluppins. 


PICKWICK 105 

“Mr. Pickwick’s sitting-room was the first-floor 
front, I believe?” 

“Yes, it were, sir,” replied Mrs. Cluppins. 

“What were you doing in the back room, ma’am?” 
inquired the little judge. 

“My Lord and Jury,” said Mrs. Cluppins, with 
interesting agitation, “I will not deceive you.” 

“You had better not, ma’am,” said the little judge. 

“I was there,” resumed Mrs. Cluppins, “unbe- 
known to Mrs. Bardell; I had been out with a little 
basket, gentlemen, to buy three pound of red kidney 
purtaties, which was three pound tuppense ha’penny, 
when I see Mrs. Bardell’s street door on the jar.” 

“On the what?” exclaimed the little judge. 

“Partly open, my Lord,” said Sergeant Buzfuz. 

“She said on the jar,” said the little judge, with 
a cunning look. 

“It’s all the same, my Lord,” said Sergeant Buz- 
fuz. The little judge looked doubtful, and said he’d 
make a note of it. Mrs. Cluppins then resumed: 

“I walked in, gentlemen, just to say good mornin', 
and went in a permiscuous manner upstairs and into 
the back room. Gentlemen, there was the sound of 
voices in the front room, and ” 

“And you listened, I believe, Mrs. Cluppins?” 
said Sergeant Buzfuz. 

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” replied Mrs. Clup- 
pins, in a majestic manner, “I would scorn the 
haction. The voices was very loud, sir, and forced 
themselves upon my ear.” 

“Well, Mrs. Cluppins, you were not listening, but 


106 DICKENS 

you heard the voices. Was one of those voices 
Pickwick’s ?” 

“Yes, it were, sir.” 

And Mrs. Cluppins, after distinctly stating that 
Mr. Pickwick addressed himself to Mrs. Bardell, 
repeated, by slow degrees, and by dint of many 
questions, the conversation with which our readers 
are already acquainted. 

The jury looked suspicious, and Mr. Sergeant 
Buzfuz smiled and sat down. They looked positive- 
ly awful when Sergeant Snubbin intimated that he 
should not cross-examine the witness, for Mr. Pick- 
wick wished it distinctly stated that it was due 
to her to say that her account was in substance 
correct. 

Mrs. Cluppins having once broken the ice, thought 
it a favorable opportunity for entering into a short 
dissertation on her own domestic affairs ; so she 
straightway proceeded to inform the court that she 
was the mother of eight children at that present 
speaking, and that she entertained confident ex- 
pectations of presenting Mr. Cluppins with a ninth., 
somewhere about that day six months. At this in- 
teresting point the little judge interposed most 
irascibly; and the effect of the interposition was 
that both the worthy lady and Mrs. Sanders were 
politely taken out of court under the escort of Mr. 
Jackson without further parley. 

“Nathaniel Winkle!” said Mr. Skimpin. 

“Here!” replied a feeble voice. Mr. Winkle en- 
tered the witness box and, having been duly sworn, 
bowed to the judge with considerable deference. 


PICKWICK 


107 


“Don’t look at me, sir,” said the judge, sharply, 
in acknowledgment of the salute; “look at the jury.” 

Mr. Winkle obeyed the mandate, and looked at 
the place where he thought it most probable the 
jury might be; for seeing anything in his then 
state of intellectual complication was wholly out of 
the question. 

Mr. Winkle was then examined by Mr. Skimpin, 
who, being a promising young man of two or three 
and forty, was of course anxious to confuse a wit- 
ness who was notoriously predisposed in favor of 
the other side, as much as he could. 

“Now, sir,” said Mr. Skimpin, “have the goodness 
to let his Lordship and the jury know what your 
name is, will you?” And Mr. Skimpin inclined his 
head on one side to listen with great sharpness to 
the answer, and glanced at the jury meanwhile, as 
if to imply that he rather expected Mr. Winkle’s 
natural taste for perjury would induce him to give 
some name which did not belong to him. 

“Winkle,” replied -the witness. 

“What’s your Christian name, sir:’ angrily in-, 
quired the little judge. 

“Nathaniel, sir.” 

“Daniel — any other name?” 

“Nathaniel, sir — my Lord, I mean.” 

“Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel?” 

“No, my Lord, only Nathaniel — not Daniel at 
all.” 

“What did you tell me it was Daniel for then, 
sir?” inquired the judge. 

“I didn’t, my Lord,” replied Mr. Winkle. 


108 


DICKENS 


“You did, sir,” replied the judge, with a severe 
frown. “How could I have got Daniel on my 
notes, unless you told me so, sir?” 

This argument was, of course, unanswerable. 

“Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my 
Lord,” interposed Mr. Skimpin, with another glance 
at the jury. “We shall find means to refresh it 
before we have quite done with him, I dare say.” 

“You had better be careful, sir,” said the little 
judge, with a sinister look at the witness. 

Poor Mr. Winkle bowed, and endeavored to feign 
an easiness of manner which, in his then state of 
confusion, gave him rather the air of a discon- 
certed pickpocket. 

“Now, Mr. Winkle,” said Mr. Skimpin, “attend 
to me, if you please, sir; and let me recommend 
you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his Lord- 
ship’s injunctions to be careful. I believe you are 
a particular friend of Pickwick, the defendant, are 
you not?” 

“I have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I 
recollect at this moment, nearly ” 

“Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. 
Are you, or are you not, a particular friend of the 
defendant’s ?” 

“I was just about to say that ” 

“Will you, or will you not, answer my question, 
sir?” 

“If you don’t answer the question you’ll be com- 
mitted, sir,” interposed the little judge, looking 
over his note-book. 


PICKWICK 109 

“Come, sir,” said Mr. Simpkin, “yes or no, if you 
please.” 

“Yes, I am,” replied Mr. Winkle. 

“Yes, you are. And why couldn’t you say that at 
once, sir? Perhaps you know the plaintiff too — 
eh, Mr. Winkle?” 

“I don’t know her; I’ve seen her.” 

“Oh, you don’t know her, but you’ve seen her? 
Now, have the goodness to tell the gentlemen of 
the jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle.” 

“I mean that I am not intimate with her, but 
that I have seen her when I went to call on Mr. 
Pickwick, in Goswell street.” 

“How often have you seen her, sir?” 

“How often?” 

“Yes, Mr. Winkle, how often? I’ll repeat the 
question for you a dozen times, if you require it, 
sir.” And the learned gentleman, with a firm and 
steady frown, placed his hands on his hips and 
smiled suspiciously at the jury. 

On this question there arose the edifying brow- 
beating customary on such points. First of all, Mr. 
Winkle said it was quite impossible for him to say 
how many times he had seen Mrs. Bardell. Then 
he was asked if he had seen her twenty times, to 
which he replied, “Certainly — more than that.” Then 
he was asked whether he hadn’t seen her a hundred 
times — whether he couldn’t swear that he had seen 
her more than fifty times — whether he didn’t know 
that he had seen her at least seventy-five times — 
and so forth; the satisfactory conclusion which was 
arrived at, at last, being that he had better take 


110 


DICKENS 


care of himself, and mind what he was about. The 
witness having been by these means reduced to the 
requisite ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination 
was continued as follows: 

‘Tray, Mr. Winkle, do you remember calling on 
the defendant, Pickwick, at these apartments in the 
plaintiff’s house in Goswell street on one particular 
morning in the month of July last?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Were you accompanied on that occasion by a 
friend of the name of Tupman, and another of the 
name of Snodgrass?” 

“Yes, I was.” 

“Are they here?” 

“Yes, they are,” replied Mr. Winkle, looking very 
earnestly toward the spot where his friends were 
stationed. 

“Pray attend to me, Mr. Winkle, and never mind 
your friends,” said Mr. Skimpin, with another ex- 
pressive look at the jury. “They must tell their 
stories without any previous consultation with you. 
if none has yet taken place (another look at the 
jury). Now, sir, tell the gentlemen of the jury 
what you saw on entering the defendant’s room on 
this particular morning. Come; out with it, sir; 
we must have it, sooner or later.” 

“The defendant, Mr. Pickwick, was holding the 
plaintiff in his arms, with his hands clasping her 
waist,” replied Mr. Winkle, with natural hesitation, 
“and the plaintiff appeared to have fainted away.” 

“Did you hear the defendant say anything?” 

“I heard him call Mrs. Bardell a good creature, 


PICKWICK 


111 


and I heard him ask her to compose herself, for 
what a situation it was, if anybody should come, or 
words to that effect.” 

“Now, Mr. Winkle, I have only one more ques- 
tion to ask you, and I beg you to bear in mind his 
Lordship’s caution. Will you undertake to swear 
that Pickwick, the defendant, did not say on the 
occasion in question, ‘My dear Mrs. Bardell, you’re 
a good creature; compose yourself to this situation, 
for to this situation you must come,’ or words to 
that effect?” 

“I — I didn’t understand him so, certainly,” said 
Mr. Winkle, astounded at this ingenious dove-tail- 
ing of the few words he had heard. “I was on the 
staircase, and couldn’t hear distinctly; the impres- 
sion on my mind is ” 

“The gentlemen of the jury want none of the im- 
pressions on your mind, Mr. Winkle, which I fear 
would be of little service to honest, straightforward 
men,” interposed Mr. Skimpin. “You were on the 
staircase, and didn’t distinctly hear; but you will 
not swear that Pickwick did not make use of the 
expressions I have quoted? Do I understand that?” 

“No, I will not,” replied Mr. Winkle; and down 
sat Mr. Skimpin with a triumphant countenance. 

Mr. Pickwick’s case had not gone off in so par- 
ticularly happy a manner, up to this point, that it 
could very well afford to have any additional sus- 
picion cast upon it. But as it could afford to be 
placed in a rather better light, if possible, Mr. 
Phunky rose for the purpose of getting something 
important out of Mr. Winkle in cross-examination. 


112 


DICKENS 


Whether he did get anything important out of him 
will immediately appear. 

“I believe, Mr. Winkle,” said Mr. Phunky, “that 
Mr. Pickwick is not a young man?” 

“Oh, no,” replied Mr. Winkle, “old enough to be 
my father.” 

“You have told my learned friend that you have 
known Mr. Pickwick a long time. Had you ever 
any reason to suppose or believe that he was about 
to be married?” 

“Oh no; certainly not”; replied Mr. Winkle with 
so much eagerness that Mr. Phunky ought to have 
got him out of the box with all possible dispatch. 
Lawyers hold that there are two kinds of partic- 
ularly bad witnesses: a reluctant witness and a too- 
willing witness; it was Mr. Winkle’s fate to figure 
in both characters. 

“I will even go further than this, Mr. Winkle,” 
continued Mr. Phunky in a most smooth and com- 
placent manner. “Did you ever see anything in Mr. 
Pickwick’s manner and conduct toward the op- 
posite sex to induce you to believe that he ever 
contemplated matrimony of late years, in any case?” 

“Oh no; certainly not,” replied Mr. Winkle. 

“Has his behaviour, when females have been in the 
case, always been that of, a man who, having at- 
tained a pretty advanced period of life, content with 
his own occupations and amusements, treats them 
only as a father might his daughters?” 

“Not the least doubt of it,” replied Mr. Winkle, 
in the fullness of his heart. “That is — yes — oh yes 
— certainly.” 


PICKWICK 


113 


“You have never known anything in his behaviour 
toward Mrs. Bardell, or any other female, in the 
least degree suspicious?” said Mr. Phunky, pre- 
paring to sit down; for Sergeant Snubbin was 
winking at him. 

“N — o — no,” replied Mr. Winkle, “except on one 
trifling occasion, which, I have no doubt, might be 
easily explained.” 

Now, if the unfortunate Mr. Phunky had sat 
down when Sergeant Snubbin winked at him, or if 
Sergeant Buzfuz had stopped this irregular cross- 
examination at the outset (which he knew better 
than to do; observing Mr. Winkle’s anxiety, and 
well knowing it would, in all probability, lead to 
something serviceable to him), this unfortunate ad- 
mission would not have been elicited. The moment 
the words fell from Mr. Winkle’s lips Mr. Phunky 
sat down, and Sergeant Snubbin rather hastily told 
him he might leave the box, which Mr. Winkle 
prepared to do with great readiness, when Sergeant 
Buzfuz stopped him. 

“Stay, Mr. Winkle — stay!” said Sergeant Buz- 
fuz; “will your Lordship have the goodness to ask 
him what this one instance of suspicious behavior 
toward females on the part of this gentleman, who 
is old enough to be his father, was?” 

“You hear what the learned counsel says, sir?” 
observed the judge, turning to the miserable and 
agonized Mr. Winkle. “Describe the occasion to 
which you refer.” 

“My Lord,” said Mr. Winkle, trembling with anx- 
iety, “I — I’d rather not.” 


114 DICKENS 

r 

“Perhaps so,” said the little judge; “but you 
must.” 

Amid the profound silence of the whole court 
Mr. Winkle faltered out that the trifling circum- 
stance of suspicion was Mr. Pickwick’s being found 
in a lady’s sleeping apartment at midnight; which 
had terminated, he believed, in the breaking off of 
the projected marriage of the lady in question, and 
had led, he knew, to the whole party being forcibly 
carried before George Nupkins, Esq., magistrate and 
justice of the peace for the borough of Ipswich. 

“You may leave the box, sir,” said Sergeant Snub- 
bin. Mr. Winkle did leave the box, and rushed with 
delirious haste to the George and Vulture, where 
he was discovered some hours after, by the waiter, 
groaning in a hollow and dismal manner, with his 
head buried beneath the sofa cushions. 

Tracy Tupman and Augustus Snodgrass were sev- 
erally called into the box ; both corroborated the 
testimony of their unhappy friend ; and each was 
driven to the verge of desperation by excessive 
badgering. 

Susannah Sanders was then called, and examined 
by Sergeant Buzfuz and cross-examined by Ser- 
geant Snubbin. Had always said and believed that 
Pickwick would marry Mrs. Bardell ; knew that 
Mrs. Bardell’s being engaged to Pickwick was the 
current topic of conversation in the neighborhood, 
after the fainting in July; had been told it herself 
by Mrs. Mudberry which kept a mangle, and Mrs. 
Bunkin which clear-starched, but did not see either 
Mrs. Mudberry or Mrs. Bunkin in court. Had 


PICKWICK 


115 


heard Pickwick ask the little boy how he should 
like to have another father. Did not know that 
Mrs. Bardell was at that time keeping company with 
the baker, but did know that the baker was then a 
single man and is now married. Couldn’t swear 
that Mrs. Bardell was not very fond of the baker, 
but should think that the baker was not very fond 
of Mrs. Bardell, or he wouldn’t have married some- 
body else. Thought Mrs. Bardell fainted away on 
the morning in July because Pickwick asked her to 
name the day; knew that she (witness) fainted 
away stone dead when Mr. Sanders asked her to 
name the day, and believed that everybody as called 
herself a lady would do the same under similar 
circumstances. Heard Pickwick ask the boy the 
question about the marbles, but upon her oath did 
not know the difference between an alley tor and 
a commoney. 

By the Court. — During the period of her keep- 
ing company with Mr. Sanders had received love 
letters, like other ladies. In the course of their 
correspondence Mr. Sanders had often called her a 
“duck,” but never “chops,” nor yet “tomata sauce.” 
He was particularly fond of ducks. Perhaps if he 
had been as fond of chops and tomata sauce he 
might have called her that, as a term of affection. 

Sergeant Buzfuz now rose with more importance 
than he had yet exhibited, if that were possible, 
and vociferated “Call Samuel Weller.” 

It was quite unnecessary to call Samuel Weller, 
for Samuel Weller stepped briskly into the box the 
instant his name was pronounced, and, placing his 


116 


DICKENS 


hat on the floor and his arms on the rail, took a 
bird’s-eye view of the bar and a comprehensive 
survey of the bench with a remarkably cheerful and 
lively aspect. 

“What’s your name, sir?” inquired the judge. 

“Sam Veller, my Lord,” replied that gentleman. 

“Do you spell it with a ‘V’ or a ‘W’?” inquired 
the judge. 

“That depends upon the taste and fancy of the 
speller, my Lord,” replied Sam. “I never had oc- 
casion to spell it more than once or twice in my 
life, but I spells it with a ‘V.’ ” 

Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, 
“Quite right, too, Samivel; quite right. Put it down 
a we, my Lord, put it down a we.” 

“Who is that who dares to address the court?” 
said the little judge, looking up. “Usher.” 

“Yes, my Lord.” 

“Bring that person here instantly.” 

“Yes, my Lord.” 

But as the usher didn’t find the person, he didn’t 
bring him; and, after a great commotion, all the 
people who had got up to look for the culprit, sat 
down again. The little judge turned to the witness 
as soon as his indignation would allow him to 
speak, and said: 

“Do you know who that was, sir?” 

“I rayther suspect it was my father, my Lord,” 
replied Sam. 

“Do you see him here now?” said the judge. 

“No, I don’t, my Lord,” replied Sam, staring right 
up into the lantern in the roof of the court. 


PICKWICK 117 

“If you could have pointed him out I would have 
committed him instantly,” said the judge. 

Sam bowed his acknowledgments and turned, with 
unimpaired cheerfulness of countenance, toward Ser- 
geant Buzfuz. 

“Now, Mr. Weller,” said Sergeant Buzfuz. 

“Now, sir,” replied Sam. 

“I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pick- 
wick, the defendant in this case. Speak up, if you 
please, Mr. Weller.” 

“I mean to speak up, sir,” replied Sam; “I am 
in the service o’ that ’ere genTman, and a wery 
good service it is.” 

“Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?” said 
Sergeant Buzfuz, with jocularity. 

“Oh, quite enough to get, sir, as the soldier said 
ven they ordered him three hundred and fifty 
lashes,” replied Sam. 

“You must not tell us what the soldier, or any 
other man, said, sir,” interposed the judge, “it’s not 
evidence.” 

“Wery good, my Lord,” replied Sam. 

“Do you recollect anything particular happening 
on the morning when you were first engaged by the 
defendant; eh, Mr. Weller?” said Sergeant Buzfuz. 

“Yes, I do, sir,” replied Sam. 

“Have the goodness to tell the jury what it was.” 

“I had a reg’lar new fit out o’ clothes that 
mornin’, genTmen of the jury,” said Sam, “and 
that was a wery partickler and uncommon circum- 
stance vith me in those days.” 

Hereupon there was a general laugh ; and the 


118 


DICKENS 


little judge, looking with an angry countenance 
over his desk, said, “You had better be careful, 
sir.” 

“So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my Lord,” re- 
plied Sam, “and I was wery careful o’ that ’ere 
suit o’ clothes ; wery careful indeed, my Lord.” 

The judge looked sternly at Sam for full two 
minutes, but Sam’s features were so perfectly calm 
and serene that the judge said nothing, and mo- 
tioned Sergeant Buzfuz to proceed. 

“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller,” said Ser- 
geant Buzfuz, folding his arms emphatically and 
turning half round to the jury, as if in mute as- 
surance that he would bother the witness yet — 
“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller, that you saw 
nothing of this fainting on the part of the plain- 
tiff in the arms of the defendant, which you have 
heard described by the witnesses?” 

“Certainly not,” replied Sam ; “I was in the 
passage till they called me up, and then the old 
lady was not there.” 

“Now, attend, Mr. Weller,” said Sergeant Buz- 
fuz, dipping a large pen into the inkstand before him 
for the purpose of frightening Sam with a show of 
taking down his answer. “You were in the passage, 
and yet saw nothing- of what was going forward. 
Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?” 

“Yes, I have a pair of eyes,” replied Sam, “and 
that’s just it. If they wos a pair o’ patent double 
million magnifyin’ gas microscopes of hextra power, 
p’raps I might be able to see through a flight o’ 


PICKWICK 


119 


stairs and a deal door; but bein’ only eyes, you 
see, my wision’s limited.” 

At this answer, which was delivered without the 
slightest appearance of irritation, and with the most 
complete simplicity and equanimity of manner, the 
spectators tittered, the little judge smiled, and 
Sergeant Buzfuz looked particularly foolish. After 
a short consultation with Dodson and Fogg, the 
learned Sergeant again turned towards Sam, and 
said, with a painful effort to conceal his vexation, 
“Now, Mr. Weller, I’ll ask you a question on an- 
other point, if you please.” 

“If you please, sir,” rejoined Sam, with the utmost 
good humor. 

“Do you remember going up to Mrs. Bardell’s 
house, one night in November last?” 

“Oh, yes, wery well.” 

“Oh, you do remember that, Mr. Weller,” said 
Sergeant Buzfuz, recovering his spirits; “I thought 
we should get at something at last.” 

“I rayther thought that, too, sir,” replied Sam; 
and at this the spectators tittered again. 

“Well! I suppose you went up to have a little 
talk about this trial — eh, Mr. Weller?” said Ser- 
geant Buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury. 

“I went up to pay the rent; but we did get a 
talkin’ about the trial,” replied Sam. 

“Oh, you did get a talkin’ about the trial,” said 
Sergeant Buzfuz, brightening up with the antici- 
pation of some important discovery. “Now, what 
passed about the trial; will you have the goodness 
to tell us, Mr. Weller?” 


120 


DICKENS 


“Vith all the pleasure in life, sir,” replied Sam. 
“Arter a few unimportant obserwations from the 
two wirtuous females as has been examined here 
today, the ladies gets into a wery great state o’ 
admiration at the honourable conduct of Mr. Dod- 
son and Fogg — them two genTmen as is sittin’ 
near you now.” This, of course, drew general at- 
tention to Dodson and Fogg, who looked as virtu- 
ous as possible. 

“The attorneys for the plaintiff,” said Mr. Ser- 
geant Buzfuz, “well, they spoke in high praise of 
the honourable conduct of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg 
the attorneys for the plaintiff, did they?” 

“Yes,” said Sam, “they said what a wery gen’- 
rous thing it was o’ them to have taken up the 
case on spec, and to charge nothin’ at all for costs, 
unless they got ’em out of Mr. Pickwick.” 

At this very unexpected reply, the spectators tit- 
tered again, and Dodson and Fogg, turning very red, 
leaned over to Sergeant Buzfuz, and in a hurried 
manner whispered something in his ear. 

“You are quite right,” said Sergeant Buzfuz 
aloud, with affected composure. “It’s perfectly use- 
less, my Lord, attempting to get at any evidence 
through the impenetrable stupidity of this wit- 
ness. I will not trouble the court by asking him 
any more questions. Stand down, sir.” 

“Would any other genTman like to ask me any- 
thin’?” inquired Sam, taking up his hat, and look- 
ing round most deliberately. 

“Not I, Mr. Weller, thank you,” said Sergeant 
Snubbin, laughing. 


PICKWICK 


121 


“You may go down sir/’ said Sergeant Buzfuz, 
waving his hand impatiently. Sam went down ac- 
cordingly, after doing Messrs. Dodson and Fogg’s 
case as much harm as he conveniently could, and 
saying just as little respecting Mf. Pickwick as 
might be, which was precisely the object he had 
had in view all along. 

“I have no objection to admit, my Lord,” said 
Sergeant Snubbin, “if it will save the examination 
of another witness, that Mr. Pickwick has retired 
from business, and is a gentleman of considerable 
independent property.” 

“Very well,” said Sergeant Buzfuz, putting in 
the two letters to be read. “Then that’s my case, 
my Lord.” 

Sergeant Snubbin then addressed the jury on 
behalf of the defendant; and a very long and a 
very emphatic address he delivered, in which he 
bestowed the. highest possible eulogiums on the con- 
duct and character of Mr. Pickwick; but inasmuch 
as our readers are far better able to form a correct 
estimate of that gentleman’s merits and deserts than 
Sergeant Snubbin could possibly be, we do not feel 
called upon to enter at any length into the learned 
gentleman’s observations. He attempted to show 
that the letters which had been exhibited merely 
related to Mr. Pickwick’s dinner, or to the prepa- 
rations for receiving him in his apartments on his 
return from some country excursion. It is suf- 
ficient to add in general terms that he did the best 
he could for Mr. Pickwick; and the best, as every- 


122 


DICKENS 


body knows, on the infallible authority of the old 
adage, could do no more. 

Mr. Justice Stareleigh summed up, in the old- 
established and most approved form. He read as 
much of his notes to the jury as he could decipher 
on so short a notice, and made running comments 
on the evidence as he went along. If Mrs. Bardell 
were right, it was perfectly clear Mr. Pickwick was 
wrong, and if they thought the evidence of Mrs. 
Cluppins worthy of credence they would believe it, 
and, if they didn’t, why they wouldn’t. If they were 
satisfied that a breach of promise of marriage had 
been committed, they would find for the plaintiff 
with such damages as they thought proper ; and if, 
on the other hand, it appeared to them that no 
promise of marriage had ever been given, they 
would find for the defendant with no damages at 
all. The jury then retired to their private room to 
talk the matter over, and the judge retired to his 
private room, to refresh himself with a mutton 
chop and a glass of sherry. 

An anxious quarter of an hour elapsed; the 
jury came back; and the judge was fetched in. Mr. 
Pickwick put on his spectacles, and gazed at the 
foreman with an agitated countenance and a quickly 
beating heart. 

“Gentlemen,” said the individual in black, “are 
you all agreed upon your verdict?” 

“We are,” replied the foreman. 

“Do you find for the plaintiff, gentlemen, or for 
the defendant?” 

“For the plaintiff.” 


PICKWICK 


128 


“With what damages, gentlemen?” 

“Seven hundred and fifty pounds.” 

Mr. Pickwick took off his spectacles, carefully 
wiped the glasses, folded them into their case, and 
put them in his pocket; and then having drawn on 
his gloves with great nicety, and stared at the fore- 
man all the while, he mechanically followed Mr. 
Perker and the blue bag out of court. 

They stopped in a side room while Perker paid 
the court fees; and here Mr. Pickwick was joined 
by his friends. Here, too, he encountered Messrs. 
Dodson and Fogg, rubbing their hands with every 
token of outward satisfaction. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Well, sir,” said Dodson: for self and partner. 

“You imagine you’ll get your costs, don’t you, 
gentlemen?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Fogg said they thought it rather probable. Dod- 
son smiled, and said they’d try. 

“You may try, and try, and try again, Messrs. 
Dodson and Fogg,” said Mr. Pickwick, vehemently, 
“but not one farthing of costs or damages do you 
ever get from me, if I spend the rest of my exist- 
ence in a debtor’s prison.” 

“Ha, ha!” laughed Dodson. “You’ll think bet- 
ter of that before next term, Mr. Pickwick.” 

“He, he, he! we’ll soon see about that, Mr. 
Pickwick,” grinned Fogg. 

Speechless with indignation, Mr. Pickwick al- 
lowed himself to be led by his solicitor and friends 
to the door, and there assisted into a hackney- 


124 


DICKENS 


coach, which had been fetched for the purpose by 
the ever watchful Sam Weller. 

Sam had put up the steps, and was preparing to 
jump upon the box, when he felt himself gently 
touched upon the shoulder; and, looking round, his 
father stood before him. The old gentleman’s 
countenance wore a mournful expression, as he 
shook his head gravely, and said, in warning ac- 
cents : 

“I know’d what ’ud come o’ this here mode o’ 
doin’ business. Oh, Sammy, Sammy, vy worn’t 
there a alleybi !” 


CHAPTER VII. 

INVOLVING A SERIOUS CHANGE IN THE 
WELLER FAMILY, AND THE UNTIMELY 
DOWNFALL OF THE RED-NOSED MR . 
STIGGINS. 

“Dear me, Mr. Weller,” said the pretty house- 
maid, meeting Sam at the door. 

“Dear me I vish it wos, my dear,” replied Sam, 
dropping behind, to let his master get out of hear- 
ing. “Wot a sweet lookin’ creetur you are, Mary!” 

“Lor, Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk!” 
said Mary. “Oh! don’t, Mr. Weller.” 

“Don’t what, my dear?” said Sam. 

“Why, that,” replied the pretty housemaid. “Lor, 
do get along with you.” Thus admonishing him, 
the pretty housemaid smilingly pushed Sam against 


PICKWICK 125 

the wall, declaring that he had tumbled her cap, and 
put her hair quite out of curl. 

“And prevented what I was going to say, be- 
sides,” added Mary. “There’s a letter been waiting 
here for you four days ; you hadn’t been gone 
away half an hour when it came; and more than 
that, it’s got ‘Immediate’ on the outside.” 

“Vere is it, my love?” inquired Sam. 

“I took care of it for you, or I dare say it would 
have been lost, long before this,” replied Mary. 
“There, take it; it’s more than you deserve.” 

With these words, after many pretty little co- 
quettish doubts and fears, and wishes that she might 
not have lost it, Mary produced the letter from be- 
hind the nicest little muslin tucker possible, and 
handed it to Sam, who thereupon kissed it with 
much gallantry and devotion. 

“My goodness me!” said Mary, adjusting the 
tucker, and feigning unconsciousness, “you seem to 
have grown very fond of it all at once.” 

To this Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the 
intense meaning of which no description could 
convey the faintest idea of ; and, sitting himself 
down beside Mary on a window seat, opened the 
letter and glanced at the contents. 

“Hallo!” exclaimed Sam, “wot’s all this?” 

“Nothing the matter, I hope?” said Mary, peep- 
ing over his shoulder. 

“Bless them eyes o’ yourn,” said Sam, looking up. 

“Never mind my eyes; you had much better read 
your letter,” said the pretty housemaid; and as she 
said so, she made the eyes twinkle with such sly- 


126 


DICKENS 


ness and beauty that they were perfectly irresistible. 

Sam refreshed himself with a kiss, and read as 
follows : 

“Markis Gran 
By dorken 
Wensd’y. 

“My dear Sammle, 

“I am wery sorry to have the plessure of bein’ a 
Bear of ill news your Mother in law cort cold 
consekens of imprudently settin too long on the 
damp grass in the rain a hearin of a shepherd who 
warnt able to leave off till late at night owen to 
his havin vound his-self up vith brandy and vater 
and not bein able to stop his-self till he got a little 
sober which took a many hours to do the doctor 
says that if she’d svallo’d varm brandy and vater 
artervards insted of afore she mightn’t have been 
no vus her veels wos immedetly greased and every- 
think done to set her agoin as could J>&~inwented 
your father had hopes as she have vorked 

round as usual but just as she wos a turrien the 
corner my boy she took the wrong road and vent 
down hill vith a welocity you never see and not- 
vithstandin that the draw wos put on directly by 
the medikel man it wornt of no use at all for she 
paid the last pike at twenty minutes afore six 
o’clock yesterday evenin havin done the jouney 
wery much under the reglar time vich praps was 
partly owen to her haven taken in wery little lug- 
gage by the vay your father say that if you vill 
come and see me Sammy he vill take it as a wery 
great favor for I am wery lonely Samivel n b he 


PICKWICK 


127 


vill have it spelt that vay vich I say ant right and 
as there is sich a many things to settle he is sure 
your guvner wont object of course he vill not 
Sammy for I knows him better so he sends his dooty 
in which I join and am Samivel infernally yours 

“Tony Veller.” 

“Wot a incomprehensible letter,” said Sam; 
“who’s to know wot it means, vith all this he-ing 
and I-ing! It ain’t my father’s writin’ ’cept this 
here signater in print letters: that’s his.” 

“Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, 
and signed it himself afterwards,” said the pretty 
housemaid. 

“Stop a minit,” replied Sam, running over the 
letter again, and pausing here and there, to reflect, 
as he did so. “You’ve hit it. The gen’l’man as 
wrote it, wos a tellin’ all about the misfortun’ in 
a proper vay, and then my father comes a lookin' 
over him, and complicates the whole concern by 
puttin’ his oar in. That’s just the wery sort o’ 
thing he’d do. You’re right, Mary, my dear.” 

Having satisfied himself upon this point, Sam 
read the letter all over once more, and, appearing 
to form a clear notion of its contents for the first 
time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up: 

“And so the poor creatur's dead! I’m sorry for 
it. She warn’t a bad disposed ’ooman if them shep- 
herds had let her alone. I’m wery sorry for it.” 

Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a 
manner that the pretty housemaid cast down her 
eyes and looked very grave. 

“Hows’ever,” said Sam, putting the letter in his 


128 


DICKENS 


pocket, with a gentle sigh, “it wos to be — and wos, 
as the old lady said arter she’d married the foot- 
man. Can’t be helped now, can it, Mary?” 

Mary shook her head, and sighed, too. 

“I must apply to the hemperor for leave of ab- 
sence,” said Sam. 

Mary sighed again, — the letter was so very af- 
fecting. 

“Good-bye!” said Sam. 

“Good-bye,” rejoined the pretty housemaid, turn- 
ing her head away. 

“Well, shake hands, won’t you?” said Sam. 

The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, al- 
though it was a housemaid’s, was a very small one, 
and rose to go. 

“I shan’t be wery long avay,” said Sam. 

“You’re always away,” said Mary, giving her head 
the slightest possible toss in the air. “You no 
sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again.” 

Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to 
him, and entered upon a whispering conversation, 
which had not proceeded far when she turned her 
face round and condescended to look at him again. 
When they parted it was somehow or other indis- 
pensably necessary for her to go to her room, and 
arrange the cap and curls before she could think 
of presenting herself to her mistress ; which prepa- 
ratory ceremony she went off to perform, bestowing 
many nods and smiles on Sam, over the banisters 
as she tripped upstairs. 

“I shan’t be avay more than a day, or two, sir, 
at farthest,” said Sam, when he had communicated 


PICKWICK 129 

to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his father’s 
loss. 

“As long as may be necessary, Sam,” replied Mr. 
Pickwick, “you have my full permission to remain.” 

Sam bowed. 

“You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be 
of any assistance to him in his present situation, I 
shall be most willing and ready to lend him any 
aid in my power,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“lhankee, sir,” rejoined Sam. “I’ll mention it, 
sir.” 

And with some expressions of mutual good-will 
and interest, master and man separated. 

It was just seven o’clock when Samuel Weller, 
alighting from the box of a stage coach which 
passed through Dorking, stood within a few hun- 
dred yards of the Marquis of Granby. It was a 
cold dull evening; the little street looked dreary 
and dismal; and the mahogany countenance of the 
noble and gallant Marquis seemed to wear a more 
sad and melancholy expression that it was wont 
to do, as it swung to and fro, creaking mourn- 
fully in the wind. The blinds were pulled down, 
and the shutters partly closed; of the knot of 
loungers that usually collected about the door, not 
one was to be seen; the place was silent and deso- 
late. 

Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any pre- 
liminary questions, Sam walked softly in. Glancing 
round, he quickly recognized his parent in the dis- 
tance. 

The widower was seated at a small round table 


130 


DICKENS 


in the little room behind the bav, smoking a pipe, 
with his eye intently fixed upon the fire. The 
funeral had evidently taken place that day ; for 
attached to his hat, which he still retained on his 
head, was a hat-band measuring about a yard and 
a half in length, which hung over the top rail of 
the chair and streamed negligently down. Mr. 
Weller was in a very abstracted and contemplative 
mood; for, notwithstanding that Sam called him by 
name several times, he still continued to smoke with 
the same fixed and quiet countenance, and was 
only roused ultimately by his son’s placing the palm 
of his hand on his shoulder. 

“Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, “you’re velcome.” 

“I’ve been a callin’ to you half a dozen times,” 
said Sam, hanging his hat on a peg, “but you didn’t 
hear me.” 

“No, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, again look- 
ing thoughtfully at the fire. “I wos in a referee, 
Sammy.” 

“Wot about?” inquired Sam, drawing his chair 
up to the fire. 

“In a referee, Sammy,” replied the elder Mr. 
Weller, “regarding her, Samivel.” Here Mr. Wel- 
ler jerked his head in the direction of Dorking 
churchyard, in mute explanation that his words 
referred to the late Mrs. Weller. 

“I wos a thinkin’, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, eye- 
ing his son with great earnestness over his pipe, as 
if to assure him that however extraordinary and 
incredible the declaration might appear, it was never- 
theless calmly and deliberately uttered, “I wos a 


PICKWICK 131 

thinkin’, Sammy, that upon the whole I wos wery 
sorry she wos gone.” 

“Veil, and so you ought to be,” replied Sam. 

Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the senti- 
ment, and again fastened his eyes on the fire, 
shrouded himself in a cloud and mused deeply. 

“Those wos wery sensible obserwations as she 
made, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, driving the smoke 
away with his hand, after a long silence. 

“Wot obserwations?” inquired Sam. 

“Them as she made, arter she was took ill,” re- 
plied the old gentleman. 

“Wot wos they?” 

“Somethin’ to this here effect: ‘Veller,’ she says, 
‘I’m afeard I’ve not done by you quite wot I ought 
to have done; you’re a wery kind-hearted man, and 
I might ha’ made your home more comfortabler. I 
begin to see now,’ she says, ‘ven it’s too late, that 
if a married ’ooman vishes to be religious, she 
should begin vith dischargin’ her dooties at home, 
and makin’ them as is about her cheerful and happy, 
and that vile she goes to church, or chapel, or 
wot not, at all proper times, she should be wery 
careful not to con-wert this sort o’ thing into a 
excuse for idleness or self-indulgence. I have done 
this,’ she says, ‘and I’ve wasted time and substance 
on them as has done it more than me; but I hope 
ven I’m gone, Veller, that you’ll think on me as I 
wos afore I know’d them people, and as I raly wos 
by natur’. ‘Susan,’ says I, — I wos took up very 
short by this, Samivel; I von’t deny it, my boy — 
‘Susan,’ I says, ‘you’ve been a wery good vife to 


132 


DICKENS 


me, altogether; don’t say nothin’ at all about it; 
keep a good heart, my dear; and you’ll live to see 
me punch that ’ere Stiggins’s head yet.’ She smiled 
at this, Samivel,” said the old gentleman, stifling a 
sigh with his pipe, “but she died arter all!” 

“Veil,” said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely 
consolation, after the lapse of three or four minutes, 
consumed by the old gentleman in slowly shaking 
his head from side to side, and solemnly smoking; 
“veil, gov’ner, ve must all come to it, one day or 
another.” 

“So we must, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller the 
elder. 

“There’s a Providence in it all,” said Sam. 

“O’ course there is,” replied his father with a 
nod of grave approval. “Wot ’ud become of the 
undertakers vithout it, Sammy?” 

Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened 
by this reflection, the elder Mr. Weller laid his pipe 
on the table, and stirred the fire with a meditative 
visage. 

While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a 
very buxom-looking cook, dressed in mourning, who 
had been bustling about, in the bar, glided into 
the room, and bestowing many smirks of recogni- 
tion upon Sam, silently stationed herself at the back 
of his father’s chair, and announced her presence 
by a slight cough : the which, being disregarded, 
was followed by a louder one. 

“Hallo!” said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the 
poker as he looked round, and hastily drew his 
chair away. “Wot’s the matter now?” 


PICKWICK 133 

“Have a cup of tea, there’s a good soul,” replied 
the buxom female, coaxingly. 

“I von’t,” replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat 

boisterous manner; “I’ll see you ” Mr. Weller 

hastily checked himself, and added in a low tone, 
“furder fust.” 

“Oh, dear, dear; how adversity does change peo- 
ple!” said the lady, looking upwards. 

“It’s the only thing ’twixt this and the doctor as 
shall change my condition,” muttered Mr. Weller. 

“I really never saw a man so cross,” said the 
buxom female. 

“Never mind — it’s all for my own good ; vich 
is the reflection vith vich the penitent schoolboy 
comforted his feelin’s ven they flogged him,” re- 
joined the old gentleman. 

The buxom female shook her head with a com- 
passionate and sympathizing air; and, appealing to 
Sam, inquired whether his father really ought not 
to make an effort to keep up, and not give way to 
that lowness of spirits. 

“You see, Mr. Samuel,” said the buxom female, 
“as I was telling him yesterday, he will feel lonely, 
he can’t expect but what he should, sir, but he 
should keep up a good heart, because, dear me, I’m 
sure we all pity his loss, and are ready to do any- 
thing for him; and there’s no situation in life so 
bad, Mr. Samuel, that it can’t be mended. Which 
is what a very worthy person said to me when my 
husband died.” Here the speaker, putting her hand 
before her mouth, coughed again, and looked af- 
fectionately at the elder Mr. Weller. 


134 


DICKENS 


“As I don’t rekvire any o’ your conversation just 
now, mum, vill you have the goodness to re-tire?” 
inquired Mr. Weller, in a grave and steady voice. 

“Well, Mr. Weller,” said the buxom female, “I’m 
sure I only spoke to you out of kindness.” 

“Wery likely, mum,” replied Mr. Weller. “Sam- 
ivel, show the lady out, and shut the door arter her.” 

This hint was not lost upon the buxom female; 
for she at once left the room, and slammed the 
door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller, senior, 
falling back in his chair in a violent perspiration, 
said : 

“Sammy, if I wos to stop here alone vun veek — 
only vun veek, my boy — that ’ere ’ooman ’ud marry 
me by force and wiolence afore it was over.” 

“Wot! Is she so wery fond on you?” inquired 
Sam. 

“Fond!” replied his father, “I can’t keep her avay 
from me. If I was locked up in a fire-proof chest 
vith a patent Brahmin, she’d find means to get at 
me, Sammy.” 

“Wot a thing it is, to be so sought arter!” ob- 
served Sam, smiling. 

“I don’t take no pride out on it, Sammy,” re- 
plied Mr. Weller, poking the fire vehemently; “it’s 
a horrid sitiwation. I’m actiwally drove out o’ 
house and home by it The breath was scarcely out 
o’ your poor mother-in-law’s body, ven vun old 
’ooman sends me a pot o’ jam, and another a pot 
o’ jelly, and another brews a blessed large jug o’ 
camomile-tea, vich she brings in vith her own 
hands.” Mr. Weller paused with an aspect of in- 


PICKWICK 


135 


tense disgust, and, looking round, added, in a whis- 
per: “They wos all widders, Sammy, all on ’em, 
’cept the camomile-tea vun, as wos a single young 
lady o’ fifty-three.” 

Sam gave a comical look in reply, and the old 
gentleman having broken an obstinate lump of coal, 
with a countenance expressive of as much earnest- 
ness and malice as if it had been the head of one 
of the widows last-mentioned, said : 

“In short, Sammy, I feel that I ain’t safe any- 
veres but on the box.” 

“How are you safer there than anyveres else?” 
interrupted Sam. 

“’Cos a coachman’s a privileged indiwidual,” re- 
plied Mr. Weller, looking fixedly at his son. “’Cos 
a coachman may do vithout suspicion wot other men 
may not ; ’cos a coachman may be on the wery 
amicablest terms with eighty mile o’ females, and 
yet nobody think that he ever means to marry any 
vun among ’em. And wot other man can say the 
same, Sammy?” 

“Veil, there’s somethin’ in that,” said Sam. 

“If your gov’ner had been a coachman,” reasoned 
Mr. Weller, “do you s’pose as that ’ere jury ’ud 
ever ha’ conwicted him, s’posin’ it possible that the 
matter could ha’ gone to that extremity? They 
dusn’t ha’ done it.” 

“Wy not?” said Sam, rather disparagingly. 

“Wy not!” repoined Mr. Weller; “’cos it ’ud ha’ 
gone again their consciences. A reg’lar coach- 
man’s a sort o’ connectin’ link betvixt singleness and 
matrimony, and every practicable man knows it.” 


136 


DICKENS 


“Wot! You mean they’re gen’ral favrites, and 
nobody takes adwantage on ’em, p’raps!” said Sam. 

His father nodded. 

“How it ever come to that ’ere pass,” resumed 
the parent Weller, “I can’t say. Wy is it that long- 
stage coachmen possess such insiniwations, and is 
always looked up to — a-dored, I may say — by ev’ry 
young ’ooman in ev’ry town he vurks through, I 
don’t know. I only know that so it is; it’s a reg’la- 
tion of natur — a dispensary, as your poor mother-in- 
law used to say.” 

“A dispensation,” said Sam, correcting the old 
gentleman. 

“Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation, if you like 
it better,” returned Mr. Weller; “I call it a dis- 
pensary and it’s always writ up so, at the places 
vere they gives you physic for nothin’ in your own 
bottles; that’s all.” 

With these words Mr. Weller refilled and re- 
lighted his pipe, and once more summoning up a 
meditative expression of countenance, continued as 
follows : 

“Therefore, my boy, as 1 do not see the adwisa- 
bility o’ stoppin’ here to be marrid vether I vant 
to or not, and as at the same time I do not vish 
to separate myself from them interestin’ members 
of society altogether, I have come to the determina- 
tion o’ drivin’ the Safety, and puttin’ up vunce more 
at the Bell Savage, vich is my nat’ral-born element, 
Sammy.” 

“And wot’s to become o’ the bis’ness?” inquired 
Sam. 


PICKWICK 


137 


“The bis’ness, Samivel,” replied the old gen- 
tleman, “good-vill, stock, and fixters, vill be sold by 
private contract; and out o’ the money, two hun- 
dred pound, agreeable to a rekvest o' your mother- 
in-law’s to me, a little afore she died, vill be in- 
wested in your name — Wot do you call them things 
again ?” 

“Wot things?” inquired Sam. 

“Them things as is always a goin’ up and down in 
the city.” 

“Omnibuses?” suggested Sam. 

“Nonsense,” replied Mr. Weller. “Them things as 
is always a fluctooatin’ and gettin’ theirselves in- 
volved somehow or another vith the national debt, 
and the chequers bills, and all that.” 

“Oh ! the funds,” said Sam. 

“Ah!” rejoined Mr. Weller; “the funs; two hun- 
dred pound o’ the money is to be inwested for you, 
Samivel, in the funs; four and a half per cent, re- 
duced counsels, Sammy.” 

“Wery kind o’ the old lady to think o’ me,” said 
Sam, “and I’m wery much obliged to her.” 

“The rest vill be inwested in my name,” con- 
tinued the elder Mr. Weller; “and ven I’m took off 
the road, it’ll come to you, so take care you don’t 
spend it all at vunst, my boy, and mind that no 
widder gets a inklin’ o’ your fortun’, or you’re 
done.” 

Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller re- 
sumed his pipe with a more serene countenance; 
the disclosure of these matters appearing to have 
eased his mind considerably. 


138 


DICKENS 


“Somebody’s a tappin’ at the door,” said Sam. 

“Let ’em tap,” replied his father, with dignity. 

Sam acted upon the direction. There was an- 
other tap, and another, and then a long row of 
taps; upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was 
not admitted. 

“Hush,” whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive 
looks; “don’t take no notice on ’em, Sammy, it’s vun 
o’ the widders, p’raps.” 

No notice being taken of the taps, the unseen 
visitor, after a short lapse, ventured to open the 
door and peep in. It was no female head that was 
thrust in at the partially opened door, but the long, 
black locks and red face of Mr. Stiggins. Mr. Wel- 
ler’s pipe fell from his hands. 

The reverend gentleman gradually opened the 
door by almost imperceptible degrees, until the aper- 
ture was just wide enough to admit of the passage 
of his lank body, when he glided into the room and 
closed it after him with great care and gentleness. 
Turning towards Sam, and raising his hands and 
eyes in token of the unspeakable sorrow with which 
he regarded the calamity that had befallen the fam- 
ily, he carried the high-backed chair to his old cor- 
ner by the fire, and, seating himsel*f on the very 
edge, drew forth a brown pocket-handkerchief, and 
applied the same to his optics. 

While this was going forward, the elder Mr. Wel- 
ler sat back in his chair, with his eyes wide open, 
his hands planted on his knees, and his whole coun- 
tenance expressive of absorbing and overwhelming 
astonishment. Sam sat opposite him in perfect si- 


PICKWICK 139 

lence, waiting, with eager curiosity, for the termi- 
nation of the scene. 

Mr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket-handkerchief 
before his eyes for some minutes, moaning decently 
meanwhile, and then, mastering his feelings by a 
strong effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it 
up. After this he stirred the fire; after that, he 
rubbed his hands and looked at Sam. 

‘‘Oh, my young friend,” said Mr. Stiggins, break- 
ing the silence, in a very low voice; “here’s a sor- 
rowful affliction!” 

Sam nodded, very slightly. 

“For the man of wrath, too!” added Mr. Stig- 
gins; “it makes a vessel’s heart bleed!” 

Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur 
something relative to making a vessel’s nose bleed; 
but Mr. Stiggins heard him not. 

“Do you know, young man,” whispered Mr. Stig- 
gins, drawing his chair closer to Sam, “whether she 
has left Emanuel anything?” 

“Who’s he?” inquired Sam. 

“The chapel,” replied Mr. Stiggins; “our chapel; 
our fold, Mr. Samuel.” 

“She hasn’t left the fold nothin’, nor the shepherd 
nothin’, nor the animals nothin’,” said Sam decisive- 
ly; “nor the dogs, neither.” 

Mr. Stiggins looked slyly at Sam; glanced at the 
old gentleman, who was sitting with his eyes closed, 
as if asleep; and, drawing his chair still nearer, 
said : 

“Nothing for me, Mr. Samuel?” 

Sam shook his head. 


140 


DICKENS 


“I think there’s something,” said Mr. Stiggins, 
turning as pale as he could turn. “Consider, Mr. 
Samuel; no little token?” 

“Not so much as the vurth o’ that ’ere old um- 
brella o' yourn,” replied Sam. 

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Stiggins, hesitatingly, after 
a few moments’ deep thought; “perhaps she recom- 
mended me to the care of the man of wrath, Mr. 
Samuel?” 

“I think that’s wery likely, from what he said,” 
rejoined Sam; “he wos a speakin’ about you, jist 
now. 

“Was he, though?” exclaimed Stiggins, brighten- 
ing up. “Ah! He’s changed, I dare say. We might 
live very comfortably together now, Mr. Samuel, 
eh? I could take care of his property when you are 
away — good care, you see.” 

Heaving a long-drawn sigh, Mr. Stiggins paused 
for a response. Sam nodded, and Mr. Weller, the 
elder, gave vent to an extraordinary sound, which, 
being neither a groan, nor a grunt, nor a gasp, nor 
a growl, seemed to partake in some degree of the 
character of all four. 

Mr. Stiggins, encouraged by this sound, which he 
understood to betoken remorse or repentance, looked 
about him, rubbed his hands, wept, smiled, wept 
again, and then, walking softly across the room to 
a well-remembered shelf in one corner, took down 
a tumbler, and, with great deliberation, put four 
lumps of sugar in it. Having got thus far, he looked 
about him again, and sighed grievously; with that, 
he walked softly into the bar, and, presently re- 


PICKWICK 


141 


turning with the tumbler half full of pine-apple rum, 
advanced to the kettle, which was singing gayly on 
the hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat 
down, and, taking a long and hearty pull at the rum 
and water, stopped for breath. 

The elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make 
various strange and uncouth attempts to appear 
asleep, offered not a single word during these pro- 
ceedings; but when Mr. Stiggins stopped for 
breath, he darted upon him, and, snatching the 
tumbler from his hand, threw the remainder of the 
rum and water in his face and the glass itself into 
the grate. Then, seizing the reverend gentleman 
firmly by the collar, he suddenly fell to kicking him 
most furiously; accompanying every application of 
his top-boots to Mr. Stiggins’ person with sundry 
violent and incoherent anathemas upon his limbs, 
eyes, and body. 

“Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, “put my hat on tight 
for me.” 

Sam dutifully adjusted the hat with the long hat- 
band more firmly on his father’s head, and the old 
gentleman, resuming his kicking with greater agil- 
ity than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through 
the bar, and through the passage, out at the front 
door, and so into the street; — the kicking continu- 
ing the whole way, and increasing in vehemence, 
rather than diminishing, every time the top-boot was 
lifted. 

It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see 
the red-nosed man writhing in Mr. Weller’s grasp, 
and his whole frame quivering with anguish as kick 


142 


DICKENS 


followed kick in rapid succession; it was a still 
more exciting spectacle to behold Mr. Weller, after 
a powerful struggle, immersing Mr. Stiggins’ head 
in a horse-trough full of water, and holding it there, 
until he was half suffocated. 

“There,” said Mr. Weller, throwing all his energy 
into one most complicated kick, as he at length per- 
mitted Mr. Stiggins to withdraw his head from the 
trough, “send any vun o’ them lazy shepherds here, 
and I’ll pound him to a jelly first, and drownd him 
arterwards! Sammy, help me in, and fill me a small 
glass of brandy. I’m out o’ breath, my boy.” 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A GREAT MORNING OF BUSINESS IN 
GRAY'S INN SQUARE. 

(Mr. Pickwick vowed he never would pay the 
damages awarded by the court in the case of 
Bardell vs. Pickwick. He was sent to the Fleet 
prison for the debt, where he made himself as com- 
fortable as he could, and had many interesting ex- 
periences. His friends tried in every way to in- 
duce him to pay up and get out, but he declared he 
would stay there until he died rather than do it. 

But one day he learned that Mrs. Bardell had 
also become an inmate of the prison. Messrs. 
Dodson and Fogg had got a cognovit out of her 
after the trial for the costs of the suit, and put 
her in prison because she could not pay the debt. 
Sam Weller at once sent word to Mr. Perker, who 


PICKWICK 14? 

represented to Mr. Pickwick that he owed it in 
kindness of heart to Mrs. Bardell to pay her costs 
so she could get out, on condition that she re- 
mitted the damages and gave him a letter stating 
that the case' was the work from beginning to end 
of Dodson and Fogg. 

The final scene takes place in Mr. Perker’s office, 
whither Mr. Pickwick has come to attend to some 
matters in behalf of various of his friends and fol- 
lowers.) 

Mr. Perker was taking a pinch of snuff with va- 
rious grotesque contractions of countenance, eulo- 
gistic of the persuasive powers appertaining unto 
young ladies, when the murmur of inquiry and 
answer was heard in the outer office, and Lowten 
tapped at the door, 

“Come in !” cried the little man. 

The clerk came in and shut the door after him 
with great mystery. 

“What’s the matter?” inquired Perker. 

“You’re wanted, sir.” 

“Who wants me?” 

Lowten looked at Mr. Pickwick, and coughed. 

“Who wants me? Can’t you speak, Mr. Low- 
ten?” 

“Why, sir,” replied Lowten, “it’s Dodson; and 
Fogg is with him.” 

“Bless my life!” said the little man, looking at 
his watch, “I appointed them to be here at half- 
past eleven, to settle that matter of yours, Pick- 
wick. I gave them an undertaking on which they 
sent down your discharge; it’s very awkward, my 


144 


DICKENS 


dear sir; what will you do? Would you like to step 
into the next room?” 

The next room being the identical room in which 
Messrs. Dodson and Fogg were, Mr. Pickwick re- 
plied that he would remain where he was : the 
more especially as Messrs. Dodson and Fogg ought 
to be ashamed to look him in the face, instead of 
his being ashamed to see them; which latter cir- 
cumstance he begged Mr. Perker to note, with a 
glowing countenance and many marks of indig- 
nation. 

“Very well, my dear sir, very well,” replied Per- 
ker. “I can only say that if you expect either Dod- 
son or Fogg to exhibit any symptom of shame or 
confusion at having to look you, or anybody else, in 
the face, you are the most sanguine man in your 
expectations that I ever met with. Show them in, 
Mr. Lowten.” 

Mr. Lowten disappeared with a grin, and immedi- 
ately returned, ushering in the firm, in due form of 
precedence: Dodson first and Fogg afterwards. 

“You have seen Mr. Pickwick, I believe?” said 
Perker to Dodson, inclining his pen in the direction 
where that gentleman was seated. 

“How do you do, Mr. Pickwick?” said Dodson, in 
a loud voice. 

“Dear me,” cried Fogg, “how do you do, Mr. 
Pickwick? I hope you are well, sir. I thought I 
knew the face,” said Fogg, drawing up a chair, and 
looking round him with a smile. 

Mr. Pickwick bent his head, very slightly, in 
answer to these salutations, and, seeing Fogg pull 


PICKWICK 145 

a bundle of papers from his coat pocket, rose and 
walked to the window. 

“There’s no occasion for Mr. Pickwick to move, 
Mr. Perker,” said Fogg, untying the red tape which 
encircled the little bundle, and smiling again, more 
sweetly than before. “Mr. Pickwick is pretty well 
acquainted with these proceedings ; there are no 
secrets between us, I think. He! he! he!” 

“Not many, I think,” said Dodson. “Ha! ha! ha!” 
Then both the partners laughed together — pleasantly 
and cheerfully, as men who are going to receive 
money often do. 

“We shall make Mr. Pickwick pay for peeping,” 
said Fogg, with considerable native humor, as he 
unfolded his papers. “The amount of the taxed 
costs is one hundred and thirty-three, six, four, Mr. 
Perker.” 

There was a great comparing of papers and turn- 
ing over of leaves by Fogg and Perker after this 
statement of profit and loss, during which Dodson 
said in an affable manner to Mr. Pickwick: 

“I don’t think you are looking quite so stout as 
when I had the pleasure of seeing you last, Mr. 
Pickwick.” 

“Possibly not, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, who had 
been flashing forth looks of fierce indignation with- 
out producing the smallest effect on either of the 
sharp practitioners ; “I believe I am not, sir. I have 
been persecuted and annoyed by scoundrels of late, 
sir.” 

Perker coughed violently, and asked Mr. Pick- 
wick whether he wouldn’t like to look at the mom- 


146 


DICKENS 


ing paper, to which inquiry Mr. Pickwick returned 
a most decided negative. 

“True,” said Dodson, “I dare say you have been 
annoyed in the Fleet; there are some odd gentry 
there. Whereabouts were your apartments, Mr. 
Pickwick ?” 

“My one room,” replied that much-injured gentle- 
man, “was on the Coffee Room flight.” 

“Oh, indeed!” said Dodson. “I believe that it is 
a very pleasant part of the establishment.” 

“Very,” replied Mr. Pickwick, dryly. 

There was a coolness about all this, which, to a 
gentleman of an excitable temperament, had, under 
the circumstances, rather an exasperating tendency. 
Mr. Pickwick restrained his wrath by gigantic ef- 
forts ; but when Perker wrote a check for the whole 
amount, and Fogg deposited it in a small pocket- 
book, with a triumphant smile playing over his 
pimply features, which communicated itself likewise 
to the stern countenance of Dodson, he felt the 
blood in his cheeks tingling with indignation. 

“Now, Mr. Dodson,” said Fogg, putting up the 
pocket-book and drawing on his gloves, “I am at 
your service.” 

“Very good,” said Dodson, rising; “I am quite 
ready.” 

“I am very happy,” said Fogg, softened by the 
check, “to have had the pleasure of making Mr. 
Pickwick’s acquaintance. I hope you don’t think 
quite so badly of us, Mr. Pickwick, as when we 
first had the pleasure of seeing you.” 

“I hope not,” said Dodson, with the high tone of 


PICKWICK 


147 


calumniated virtue. “Mr. Pickwick now knows us 
better, I trust. Whatever your opinion of gentle- 
men of our profession may be, I beg to assure you, 
sir, that I bear no ill will or vindictive feeling 
toward you for the sentiments you thought proper 
to express in our office in Freeman’s Court, Corn- 
hill, on the occasion to which my partner has re- 
ferred.” 

“Oh, no, no; nor I,” said Fogg, in a most for- 
giving manner. 

“Our conduct, sir,” said Dodson, “will speak for 
itself, and justify itself, I hope, upon every occasion. 
We have been in the profession some years, Mr. 
Pickwick, and have been honored with the confi- 
dence of many excellent clients. I wish you good 
morning, sir.” 

“Good morning, Mr. Pickwick,” said Fogg. So 
saying, he put his umbrella under his arm, drew 
off his right glove, and extended the hand of recon- 
ciliation to that most indignant gentleman : who, 
thereupon, thrust his hand beneath his coat tails 
and eyed the attorney with looks of scornful amaze- 
ment. 

“Lowten \” cried Perker at this moment, “open 
the door.” 

“Wait one instant,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Perker, 
I will speak.” 

“My dear sir, pray let the matter rest where it 
is,” said the little attorney, who had been in a state 
of nervous apprehension during the whole inter- 
view; “Mr. Pickwick, I beg ” 

“I will not be put down, sir,” replied Mr. Pick- 


148 


DICKENS 


wick, hastily. “Mr. Dodson, you have addressed 
some remarks to me.” 

Dodson turned round, bent his head meekly, and 
smiled. 

“Some remarks to me,” repeated Mr. Pickwick, 
almost breathless: “and your partner has tendered 
me his hand, and you have both assumed a tone of 
forgiveness and high-mindedness, which is an extent 
of impudence that I was not prepared for, even in 
you.” 

“What, sir,” exclaimed Dodson. 

“What, sir!” reiterated Fogg. 

“Do you know that I have been the victim of 
your plots and conspiracies?” continued Mr. Pick- 
wick. “Do you know that I am the man whom you 
have been imprisoning and robbing? Do you know 
that you were the attorneys for the plaintiff in 
Bardell and Pickwick?” 

“Yes, sir, we do know it,” replied Dodson. 

“Of course we know it, sir,” rejoined Fogg, slap- 
ping his pocket — perhaps by accident. 

“I see that you recollect it with satisfaction,” said 
Mr. Pickwick, attempting to call up a sneer for the 
first time in his life and failing most signally in so 
doing. “Although I have long been anxious to tell 
you, in plain terms, what my opinion of you is, I 
should have let even this opportunity pass, in def- 
erence to my friend Perker’s wishes, but for the 
unwarrantable tone you have assumed, and your in- 
solent familiarity — I say, insolent familiarity, sir,” 
said Mr. Pickwick, turning upon Fogg with a fierce- 


PICKWICK 149 

ness of gesture which caused that person to retreat 
toward the door with great expedition. 

“Take care, sir,” said Dodson, who although he 
was the biggest man of the party, had prudently 
intrenched himself behind Fogg, and was speaking 
over his head with a very pale face. “Let him as- 
sault you, Mr. Fogg; don’t return it on any ac- 
count.” 

“No, no, I won’t return it,” said Fogg, falling 
back a little more as he spoke, to the evident relief 
of his partner, who, by these means, was gradually 
getting into the outer office. 

“You are,” continued Mr. Pickwick, resuming the 
thread of his discourse, “you are a well-matched 
pair of mean, rascally, pettifogging robbers.” 

“Well,” interposed Perker, “is that all?” 

“It is all summed up in that,” rejoined Mr. Pick- 
wick; “they are mean, rascally, pettifogging rob- 
bers.” 

“There!” said Perker, in a most conciliatory tone. 
“My dear sirs, he has said all he has to say: now, 
pray go. Lowten, is that door open?” 

Mr. Lowten, with a distant giggle, replied in the 
affirmative. 

“There, there — good morning — good morning — 
now, pray, my dear sirs — Mr. Lowten, the door!” 
cried the little man, pushing Dodson and Fogg, 
nothing loath, out of the office; “this way, my dear 
sirs — now, pray, don’t prolong this — dear me — Mr. 
Lowten — the door, sir — why don’t you attend?” 

“If there’s law in England, sir,” said Dodson, 


150 


DICKENS 


looking toward Mr. Pickwick as he put on his hat, 
“you shall smart for this.” 

“You are a couple of mean ” 

“Remember, sir, you pay dearly for this,” said 
Fogg. 

“Rascally, pettifogging robbers !” continued 

Mr. Pickwick, taking not the least notice of the 
threats that were addressed to him. 

“Robbers!” cried Mr. Pickwick, running to the 
stair-head as the two attorneys descended. 

“Robbers!” shouted Mr. Pickwick, breaking from 
Lowten and Perker and thrusting his head out of 
the staircase window. 

When Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again his 
countenance was smiling and placid; and, walking 
quietly back into the office, he declared that he had 
now removed a great weight from his mind, and 
that he felt perfectly comfortable and happy. 

Perker said nothing at all until he had emptied 
his snuff-box, and sent Lowten out to fill it, when 
he was seized with a fit of laughing which lasted 
for five minutes; at the expiration of which time 
he said that he supposed he ought to be very angry, 
but he couldn’t think of the business seriously yet — 
when he could, he would be. 

“Well, now,” said Mr. Pickwick, “let me have a 
settlement with you.” 

“Of the same kind as the last?” inquired Perker, 
with another laugh. 

“Not exactly,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick, drawing 
out his pocketbook and shaking the little man 
heartily by the hand, “I only mean a pecuniary set- 


PICKWICK 


151 


tlement. “You have done me many acts of kind- 
ness that I can never repay, and have no wish to, 
for I prefer continuing the obligation.” 

With this preface the two friends dived into some 
very complicated accounts and vouchers, which, hav- 
ing been duly displayed and gone through by Per- 
ker, were at once discharged by Mr. Pickwick, with 
many professions of esteem and friendship. 

(So here ends the narrative of the celebrated 
case of Bardell against Pickwick.) 




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force to a letter will be equally sought by business 
houses and young men desirous of advancement in 
the business world. At least a dozen of our leading 
men have thanked different members of the house! 
for the new ideas they received from that source.” I 

Lyon & Healy, 

B. H. Jefferson, Adv. Manager. 


THE GOOD ENGLISH CLUB 
CHICAGO 



APR 20 1907 


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